


Perhaps Not to Be is to Be Without Your Being

by Detochkina



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Barebacking, Battle, Break Up, Community: paperlegends, Established Relationship, First Time, Getting Back Together, Hurt/Comfort, Light Bondage by Magic, Longing, M/M, Merlin Big Bang Challenge, Non-Graphic Violence, Original Character (Arthurian), Pining, Romance, Soul Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-03
Updated: 2013-11-18
Packaged: 2017-12-25 13:32:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 113,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/953688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Detochkina/pseuds/Detochkina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for Paperlegends 2013.<br/>Dark magic never rests. Especially since it’s possible to obtain legal permission to use it. Arthur Pendragon, an employee of the Department of Supernatural Affairs, knows this better than most, as he is the one working tirelessly to keep the realm of magic in balance.<br/>Staying busy also helps Arthur to cope with loneliness after a painful breakup with his longtime boyfriend, Merlin, who abandoned him with little explanation. Life seems to be getting back on track when he receives an assignment that sets off a disturbing chain of events at the highest level of magic. Arthur fights every obstacle on his path to prevent an imminent disaster, and along the way he finds out the truth of why Merlin left him. It’s not all that simple.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have people to thank first. My beautiful artist, friend, and handholder [ **mssdare**](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mssdare/pseuds/mssdare) who's been with me from the day I wrote the very first word of this story. Her wonderful art for the story can be found [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/952260). I thank every day for this truly inspiring person I can call my friend. Love you, T.   
>  My amazing betas [M](https://twitter.com/EditsandSnark) and [Daroh](http://archiveofourown.org/users/daroh/pseuds/daroh) - they are my rock and blessing.  I really can't say enough about the amount of support, love and encouragement I have received from these three wonderful people in the past many months. I adore them. You complete me, my darlings.   
> Thank you to [the_muppet](http://the-muppet.livejournal.com/) who's been pulling this huge event off every year and has done an amazing job this last time as well. We will miss [Paperlegends](../collections/Paperlegends2013)!  
> The title of the story is from Pablo Neruda's [poem](http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/perhaps-not-to-be-is-to-be-without-your-being/) with the same title. It moves my heart every time I read it.  
> The idea of magic levels is very loosely based on the book called "The Night Watch" by A. Lukyanenko, the world built in the story is mine.    
> The quote on the pendant is borrowed from the movie "Excalibur" (1981)  
> The names of the characters and all the major traits belong to BBC/Shine and to the Merlin show. My respect, love (and exasperation) goes out to them!  
>    
> 

 

 

 

 

xxxxx

It’s unusually sunny and warm for this time of the year in Camelot. Spring, bloom, and magic is in the air -- for those who choose to take a moment and feel it.

Kara always does, and if she had more strength, she'd share it with those who rush past her, not knowing that the petite, mousy-looking girl they barely spare a glance at has a gift, a special purpose in life: to leave a little bit of magic with everyone she touches.

Her steps are slow and measured; she stops often for rest, but despite her being weak, she’s feeling good -- feeling _right --_  for the first time in many months. Today is the day. Today she’ll be free. No more pain. No more worries. No more fear. Mordred said so, and she trusts him more than anyone on earth. Trusts him with her life.

As she walks, she admires the stunning view of lilac trees in full bloom. The bright clouds of them, weightless and fragrant, stretch along the side of the street as far ahead as she can see. _Good omen_ , Kara thinks.

 _You’re close_ , she hears Mordred inside her mind, and even over the distance between them she can tell he’s smiling. _Kara, Kara_. The voice travels with her.

 _Yes_ , she responds in the same manner, knowing he’ll hear her as well. _Yes. I am coming._

This is how they talk most of the time, and how they met a year ago. On this same street, as she passed him by -- a boy with a shy smile and vividly green eyes, meeting hers for a moment frozen in time -- he told her she was beautiful, the words a whisper in her mind, only for her.

The druid community is small nowadays, scattered. It’s such a gift, such an amazing, lucky coincidence that she’s met someone like her. Mordred gets her. He cares for her. He...

She trips over her feet when she tries to quicken her step; her mind is focused singularly now on the voice, the beckoning whisper inside her head: _Kara. Kara. Love you, Kara._

There’s nothing else that matters, nothing else she sees. That’s how she makes an unforgivable for a magic user mistake -- she opens and slips into the shadow of the magic realm without giving a second glance around to make sure she hasn’t been noticed by an unsuspecting passer-by. So when she vanishes, seemingly into thin air, she doesn’t realize that that’s exactly what happens, and a few minutes later the Municipalis of Camelot will have received a worried call, reporting of a, “Mysterious disappearance of a girl, possibly taken by aliens. I swear I’m not crazy.”

The report with the details of the call will immediately be filed with the Department of Supernatural Affairs, and within minutes it will trigger a set of events that’s not only going to threaten Kara’s already destined to be brief life, but also question the precarious Balance of the entire world.

 

 

 

 

xxxxx

Arthur never lingers in bed. He doesn’t need an alarm either; his internal clock never betrays him. And from there on out, it’s the same routine every day.

Up with the sunrise.

Going for a run.

Showering.

Wanking.

Shaving.

Brushing teeth.

Checking the news.

Checking the messages.

The phone buzzes as he reads his emails. Gwaine. Arthur presses the button to answer.

“Arghhhm,” Gwaine greets him, yawning. “Did you have a nice wank?”

Arthur hangs up.

He receives a message almost instantly. _One day you’ll let me join you._

 _Fuck off,_ Arthur types back.

_I love you too. You boring old hag._

Arthur smiles. In a way, he loves Gwaine, too, but that’s not something he’d ever say out loud. Gwaine’s already in his space enough.

And maybe his friend’s right -- Arthur’s life’s a bit dull, but he likes the predictability of the mornings -- at least one part of his day is under his control -- and even that’s not always a given.

He answers a few more messages while dressing and crunching on toast. Leon’s saying he can’t come to their afternoon football game on Saturday. Probably another date with a mysterious woman he doesn’t want anyone to meet yet. Arthur lets him off easy. His father's secretary, Catrina, tells Arthur she’ll come by his place to drop off his drycleaning and to restock his fridge. Arthur grimaces as he types back a response, thanking her and reminding her that he’s perfectly capable of doing these things himself, and knowing very well that she’ll ignore it, as she always does.

He rubs his arm absentmindedly as he keeps scrolling down, deleting and sorting the rest of his emails with his free hand. It’s a habit, nothing more -- to feel a barely-there mark in the crease of the elbow of his left arm, the day it first appeared a distant memory. It was a mark that he was Merlin’s -- the bond they sealed at twenty-one -- and Merlin carried one as well.

When Merlin left him, Arthur checked it religiously, many times a day -- touching, brushing over it, rubbing -- scared this connection with Merlin was fading away. But the mark, а light pink convex of indiscernible symbols, has remained for the past year. Dormant, never changing its color or texture, on some days it’s a soothing presence; on others, an aching reminder of what he used to have and never agreed to let go. Some days, like today, it’s a sharp prickle, like a warning: that although magic can never truly be a part of him, it’s still something he can feel and has to watch out for. Today might be the day to be especially careful, and Arthur’s ready.

A man blabbering on TV draws his attention. The, "... with my own eyes. Vanished into air, I'm telling you..." is all he catches before the screen cuts to a mug shot of the same man from years ago and the talking head rattles off the impressive list of the man's prior offenses. No one would believe another word he’d ever say again. Arthur sighs and turns the TV off.

He leaves his apartment soon after, walks down the street to take the tube to work, and spends the next half hour people-watching and thinking about everything and nothing at the same time.

 

 

 

 

xxxxx

If someone had asked Arthur a little more than a year ago if he’d ever willingly agree to work for his father, Uther Pendragon, he’d have laughed in their face and said he’d have rather been skinned alive. But things changed. Arthur changed. And his life goals have changed, too. As it stands, at twenty-three, Arthur’s an employee of the Municipalis of Camelot and officially reports to the man. Most days it’s not as bad as he’d feared, and considering the job he gets to do here, it’s actually quite fulfilling.

He looks up as he’s approaching his place of work.

Architecturally, the residence of the Municipalis of Camelot is an impressive affair -- the street facade marches a quarter-mile along the main street and is made of white cut stone, adorned with rich sculptural work. A four-wing building has towers on each corner and two towers and a dramatic arch in the front, opening into a large stone-clad, square-shaped courtyard. Inside the courtyard, a grand staircase leads up to the central entrance of the Municipalis. There’s nothing understated about the building, and Arthur’s sure it was designed specifically with the idea in mind to not just awe by its arresting architectural details, but also make every visitor feel smaller, insignificant.

Arthur knows why.

Uther Pendragon, the head of the Municipalis, believes in a healthy dose of fear. Fear breeds respect. And what leader could govern successfully without the people respecting the system? Uther makes sure they do.

Not even a mouse has a chance to chump its way in, he assures the people of Camelot in his televised appearances. Public matters are safe with Uther behind his mahogany desk, safe and dealt with in the most efficient manner.

He’s aware that people call him a “crowned king of paper-pushers” behind his back and maybe there’s some truth to it -- like any government, Camelot’s has its fair share of bureaucracy and complex procedures, but never are they pointless, for Uther is adamant about making sure his leadership is just and fair. Economic Development, Public Transportation, Ambulance, Police, Fire and Emergency Medical Services, Electric Utilities, Art and Culture, News and Media, Parks and Recreation, Animal Control -- Uther can go on and on about the importance of work happening inside these walls, and it’s a well-oiled machine under his unwavering hand.

There’s one particular department, however, that’s not meant to be exposed to the public. That department is the sole reason why Arthur went against his principles and asked Uther to hire him almost a year ago. Well, to be precise, Merlin was the sole reason, but he will never know that.

As Arthur walks through a busy courtyard and up the stairs, he tries to remember the first time he heard about the existence of the special division under his father’s reign.

He was what? Sixteen? Yes, just about that. Arthur had hated his problematic skin then; was so insecure about it. Gwaine, who he’d known since kindergarten, started acting all dodgy and then became so depressed, Arthur considered speaking to Gwaine’s mom, and everyone knew that speaking to your friends’ parents about your friends’ problems was a big, big no-no in anyone’s “best friends” book. Leon was no help, insisting Arthur was making things up. He wasn’t. Because it wasn’t _like_ Gwaine to stop stealing Arthur’s apples from his lunch tray, refuse to play Halo on Saturday nights, and be such a martyr even Uther started frowning every time he saw him.

One evening Arthur came home after his football practice and caught Gwaine leaving Uther’s study. His face was red and blotchy, and his eyes darted around, avoiding Arthur’s.

“Gwaine, what?” Arthur grabbed Gwaine’s arm as his friend skirted by, in an obvious attempt to leave as fast as possible.

Gwaine turned his face away, muttering, “Nothing.”

“Arthur,” Uther called, and jerked his head towards the study.

Arthur walked in and froze; Uther wasn’t alone. Their physician and old friend of the family was there as well, sitting in the chair by Uther's desk.

“Hello, Arthur, sit down,” Gaius greeted him without a smile, and gestured to the chair next to him.

“Father, what’s going on?” Arthur turned to Uther, dread pooling in his stomach. Uther locked the study's door, walked to his desk to take his usual spot behind it, and began telling him things Arthur never thought he’d hear even in his wildest dreams.

Gwaine.

Had.

Magic?

“Supernatural abilities,” corrected Uther, looking at a stunned Arthur with not a shade of a smile on his face. “Although it’s the most common description, magic is too magnanimous of a word, if you ask me. It’s nothing to be excited about.”

Arthur disagreed. Gwaine had abilities. What did it mean? Could he do tricks? Like pulling rabbits out of hats? Or turning fivers into twenties? Or, God, could he maybe turn their blasted math teacher, Mr Aufric, into a frog? That would be awesome! Not for long, obviously; Arthur wasn’t that cruel -- for the rest of the term would be fine.

He had questions. Fired them one after another, “What was it exactly that Gwaine could do?” and, “Was it dangerous for him?” and, “Could he hurt others?” And more questions. “Why did Gwaine have it? How did it start? What happens to him now?”

And, “Father, how would you know all this, and why was Gwaine here?”

Uther’s answers shocked and intrigued Arthur. It was obvious his father was sparing many details, but the general idea was clear -- magic existed in the world. It wasn’t the stuff of fairy tales. It was _real._

“You need to understand something, son,” Uther said, leaning forward. “Magic _can_ hurt. There’s no limit to it that we know of. There’s no definitive way to quantify what it can do. No matter how much we try.”

The night was already settled around them in the room, and the shadows in the corners behind his desk were playing tricks with Arthur’s vision. At one point, he could swear he saw something move by the bookshelf. Feeling the hairs stand up on the back of his neck, Arthur blinked a few times, and the illusion went away.

Arthur turned his eyes back to his father, whose expression was grim.

“That’s why it's important,” Uther continued, “to have ways to control it and to keep it leashed.” His eyes had a slight gleam in them that Arthur wasn’t sure how to take. There was something unsettling in the way he kept licking his lips and twisting, over and over, his wedding ring he didn’t stop wearing even after the death of his wife Ygraine, Arthur's mother.

“What do you mean, control?” Arthur asked, shifting his gaze from Uther's hands back to his face. “How do you control something you can't touch?”

“Oh, there are ways, my son.” The smile on Uther’s face was serene and almost eerie.

Gaius, who had kept silent all that time, cleared his throat. “Arthur, what your father’s saying is magic can manifest in many different forms and be used in many different ways. When harnessed, it can serve good purpose. Take Gwaine, for instance.”

Arthur looked at Gaius, studying his expression. As with Arthur, Gaius had been Gwaine’s physician since a very young age. “Do you have magic, Gaius?” he asked.

“Naturally? Very little.” Gaius slowly rubbed his knee as he spoke, which Arthur knew had been bothering him lately. “But I’ve been around it all my life and studied many spells. Some time ago, thanks to your father, we opened a special ward at the clinic where we treat people affected by magic.”

“And Gwaine...” 

“I was the one who noticed the early signs and told your father.”

“Is he okay?”

“He will be. Turns out, your Gwaine can charm the pants off just about anyone,” Gaius said.

Arthur snorted. “You call that magic?”

“Possibly empathic abilities,” Uther said. “He doesn’t know what to do with that yet. Right now it’s just something that makes him itchy under his skin and -- forgive me for being blunt -- aroused at the most inappropriate times.”

“What? Father, that’s...” Arthur squirmed on his chair, and glanced at Gaius, whose only reaction was one eyebrow pulled up unnaturally high.

“Gaius here is a doctor,” Uther said. “I doubt he finds this information shocking.”

Gaius coughed but said nothing.

“And I’m no prude myself, son; I was a teenager once,” Uther added, his voice soft, wistful. “I know we never talk about it. Maybe we should--”

“I can tell you with confidence,” Arthur interrupted him, shuddering,“ that you’re at least a few years too late. I think I’ve already made it clear to you about my… likes. And I sincerely hope this is not what Gwaine was here to talk about. Because that’s... ugh... just awkward...”

How did they end up having this conversation? If he hadn’t been dying of curiosity, he’d have fled Uther’s study then.

“So, about Gwaine...” he prodded.

“Gwaine’s expected at the Municipalis tomorrow,” Uther said.

“Why? Did he do something?” Next time Arthur saw him, he was going to shake him and tell him what an idiot he was for getting in trouble and not talking to Arthur. “What did he do?”

“Nothing major yet,” Uther answered calmly. “But he still lacks maturity, and if Gaius’s right about the nature of his abilities, he might do some serious damage soon. What I’m going to tell you next should be treated as most important and highly confidential information. _Swear_ to me, Arthur, that you will never, ever tell a soul. Unless you’re allowed under special circumstances.”

Arthur sat up straighter. His father was about to trust him with something important, and he wasn’t going to break that trust. “I swear, Father, on my well-being. I promise.”

Uther nodded.

“Tomorrow, Gwaine will be tested for supernatural abilities. He’s going to be registered as a magic user, and enrolled in a special program that helps young people like him to manage their magic.”

There’s a program like that? Arthur’s eyes widen. “Register where? At the Municipalis?”

“Not exactly. _Confidential_ , remember?” Uther reminded him, and Arthur nodded, guessing that since Gaius was here, he was in on whatever his father was about to share. “There’s a special division which is run under my supervision. It’s called the Department of Supernatural Affairs, and it's responsible for keeping track of magic users and their activities."

Arthur thought about it for a minute, piecing the information together.

“There are people who can do magic, and they keep it a secret?” he asked.

“Not all of them willingly, but yes, that's the agreement.”

"Why?"

"To keep Balance in the world. And to keep magic itself in Balance. There were times when it wasn't, and those times were the darkest known to our people."

"When was this? What happened?"

"You’ll learn about it -- give it time," Gaius said softly.

"For now, you need to remember that magic is not anyone's friend; certainly not yours. Do not seek it, do not show that you're aware of its existence. Do not speak of it. To anyone... _anyone_ ," Uther repeated emphatically, seeing Arthur was going to protest. "Even your best friends. You'll learn how vile and fickle it can be. It must stay hidden -- this is how it's been for thousands of years, and this is how it's going to remain. Those who choose to practice magic accept the rules as well."

Rules?

"Like, always hide it?" Arthur couldn’t fathom that idea. What kind of life was that? “But they’re allowed to talk to each other, right? How do they even know who has it?”

“Oh, they know.” Uther scowled a little. "It's the rest of the folks who must stay uninformed. For their own good."

“For the most part, magic is inherited, so it’s relatively easy to figure out,” Gaius said. “Kids born from parents with magic are monitored and tested from birth. There are communities and support. But occasionally, it manifests unexpectedly.”

“And so,” Uther continued, “the goal of my people in the Department is to find those folks as early as possible. In some cases, we see early signs or a predisposition to magic, even before a carrier finds it out.”

Carrier? Why did it sound more like a disease than something amazing? Arthur tried to imagine Gwaine waking up one morning and feeling like there was something wrong with him. Was it so weird he couldn’t tell anyone? Was he scared? Ashamed, even? That couldn’t be right. No wonder he seemed so lost.

“And what happens then? Are they ever allowed to use magic?” he asked.

“Those with a license, yes. Once the user’s abilities are measured and registered -- and they learn to harness it -- those who want to exercise their magic are allowed to do so.”

“Oh, okay. Okay, then. That’s... I’ve never seen anyone doing magic,” Arthur said, his voice dreamy.

“It’s done, but mostly it’s subtle.”

“Like what?”

“Remember the last winner of the Camelot municipal lottery?” Uther asked.

“Yeah, so much money--” Arthur’s eyes went wide. “That was magic?”

“In most cases it turns out to be.”

“So, what happened to that guy?”

“He was charged with breaking the law and tried in the Supernatural Court of Law.”

“Wow. And what happens if they talk about magic? I mean, _I_ _know_ now.” And Arthur couldn’t imagine Gwaine keeping something so big from him forever.

“It’s punishable by law. And that’s why we search for magic users and try to enroll them into the program early. Unfortunately, slip-ups happen, people do talk occasionally. The Department takes care of that.”

Arthur didn’t think of it much, then -- the meaning behind his father’s words. At the time he mostly thought about endless possibilities and how Gwaine was actually a lucky bastard.

“And you, Arthur, are a special case. I’ve been thinking about it for a while now. There are people, son, who do not wish me well. I have enemies.

“Information is a tool,” Uther continued. “It’s a powerful weapon that can be used both ways. In this case it can be used against me, so I prefer you learn certain details directly from me. I cannot allow anyone to manipulate you. You cannot allow anyone to manipulate you. Do you understand?”

Uther was looming over the desk, his hands curled into fists. Arthur swallowed.

“Yes, I understand.”

“Tomorrow, you will go in with Gwaine. He’ll be registered and you will spend time learning basics about thee supernatural realm. I already authorized clearance for you -- minimal, of course.”

Arthur gaped. “Clearance?”

“A formality to grant you access to certain information. It’s time to start learning some ropes anyway. Your place is by my side, Arthur. I realize it’s no monarchy, but the sooner you start learning the ins and outs of the political and social interactions, the better chances you’ll have to take my place in the future.”

Arthur wasn’t sure he wanted to, but this was probably the first-ever conversation with his father that had lasted longer than thirty-five seconds and bore so much weight.

“So, you’ll meet a few people at the Department tomorrow and learn about the magic realm.”

“What’s that?”

Uther glanced at Gaius, who said, “It’s a special place where magic is allowed in the open. The place that you -- as a non-magic person -- will never have access to, simply because it’s not something you have an ability to enter.”

A prickle of jealousy stung Arthur’s heart.

“And Gwaine does?” he asked.

Uther rose to his feet. He pulled some papers from the drawer in his desk and handed them to Gaius. “And Gwaine does, and so does your other friend, Leon. Leon’s been registered since eleven, and he’s _realm two_.”

Arthur needed a moment to digest yet more shocking news. Arthur wasn’t going to lie -- that stung more than anything else so far. Leon? Magic? And he’d never said a word? Even knowing that Leon would have been punished if he’d told, Arthur still felt betrayed by his friend.

He blinked a few times, speechless.

“Just getting this all out of the way, son. Leon did what he had to do. And so did I.”

Arthur was still going to kick his ass, he decided, and that made him feel a bit better.

“What’s a realm two?” he asked, wanting to get off the unpleasant subject of deceitful friends.

“That you will learn once you receive your clearance status,” Uther said. “Things are going to change for you. My expectations of you are going to change. The same goes for your friendship with those young men.”

"It might not be too bad, sir. It's been fine so far," Gaius murmured.

"No, our worlds are too different. It never works out in the end. I should know." Uther walked up to him while Arthur wondered what the hell they were even discussing anymore.

"But--" Gaius started.

"We will see, but we both know I'm right." Uther waited patiently for Gaius to get up from his chair.

“Gaius, are you going to be there tomorrow?” Arthur asked with a plea in his voice.

“I'll be there, my boy,” Gaius said softly and patted his back. “It’s nothing to be afraid of, I promise.”

Uther snorted but said nothing.

Arthur walked upstairs to his room on wooden legs and dropped onto the bed without undressing.

As he lay awake that night, confused and upset, there was one question that kept coming back in his mind. If magic was real, if there were people who had special abilities, if Gwaine and Leon had them... Why didn’t he?

 

 

 

 

xxxxx


	2. Chapter 2

 

xxxxx

As unsettling as the new information was, there was also a large element of thrill to it. If his father wasn't pulling a massive prank on him -- which wouldn't be like him, but who knew for sure in the light of last night's events -- Arthur was going to become a member of some undercover organization, and if that wasn’t freaking awesome, what else could ever be?

He expected the secret department being somewhere deep underground, lost in a maze of long, dark corridors, operating in small, windowless rooms -- possibly run by elves or something similar -- and it couldn’t be further from the truth. Gaius led Arthur and Gwaine to the lift in the tower of the north wing, and once inside, pressed the button for the eleventh floor and smiled at them. Gwaine looked like he was about to throw up at any moment and kept away from Arthur, staying on the other side of Gaius all the time, as if he he didn’t trust himself and worried about hurting Arthur. Or maybe he didn’t trust Arthur anymore?

Arthur glanced at Gwaine a few times, frowning, but Gwaine kept his eyes firmly to the ground.

Gaius separated them when they reached the room numbered 1186. Gaius told Arthur to go in and wait while he whisked Gwaine down the hallway. Gwaine followed Gaius quietly and obediently, which was so not like him, Arthur had to do something.

“Hey!” he called, and when Gwaine glanced back, he gave him a middle-finger salute. Gwaine didn’t answer in kind like usual, but he snorted, and that was enough for Arthur to relax a little. His friend was going to be fine.

Room 1186 turned out to be empty, with no signs of busy elves. It was a decent size and had an impressive panorama of Camelot from the corner window, but Arthur was too nervous to appreciate the view; besides, he wasn’t there on a tour.

“Arthur.” He heard a soft familiar voice and snapped his head to find Leon standing next to him.

“Leon!” Arthur was so happy to see a familiar face, he almost forgot how upset he was with him just the night before. “What are you doing here?”

“Gaius thought I should come by today,” Leon said, quickly taking in Arthur’s features. Two red spots appeared on the apples of Leon's cheeks, which Arthur recognized as his signature sign for nerves.

Arthur blew out the air he’d kept in his lungs for what seemed like all morning and rolled his shoulders, feeling some of the tension go. “Nice. But I’m kicking your ass later,” he promised.

Leon let out such a happy, relieved sound, that Arthur couldn’t help it -- he grinned. A minute later they were both giggling like girls, shoving each other in the ribs and slapping each other’s backs.

Gaius came back into the room a few minutes later with a stack of books and files.

“All right, my boy,” he said, addressing Arthur, “I hope you’re ready.”

He turned to Leon. “Go see Gwaine, we’ll be fine here. He could use a familiar face about now. They will let you in.”

Leon nodded, glanced at Arthur with an encouraging smile, and left.

“So,” Arthur said, gaining his confidence back more and more with every minute. It was just Gaius, nothing to worry about. “Teach me something useful. Like, clean my room with magic or ...? Ohhh, Gaius, is there an invisibility spell? That would be a bomb!”

Gaius laughed, his large dentures bulging unnaturally when he opened his mouth. “You wish, but I'm afraid it’s going to be a lot more prosaic than that. Without at least a spark of magic, spells aren’t particularly useful. And there’s absolutely none of that in you, I'm afraid. Of course, we are going to test you just in case, but even if you were to have any magical inclinations, you wouldn’t be practicing any spells until you were of age.”

“I’m seventeen next month, I’m of age!” Arthur protested.

“In the magic community you don’t come of age until you’re eighteen,” Gaius said patiently. “Some magic doesn’t come to full power until twenty-one. In some more rare cases even later, depending on when it started being addressed and how much power comes with it.”

Arthur deflated a bit. “What about Leon and Gwaine?”

“Leon and Gwaine’s magic doesn’t require a spell to be initiated. Spells only enhance it. Believe it or not, having magic and knowing spells is not all that there is, Arthur. Especially when magic is not allowed to be used out in the open.”

“Then what else is there?” Arthur asked, shifting from one foot to the other. The day was still very young, but he hadn’t slept last night and was too nervous to be able to hold any food in the morning. He’d started to understand that his life was going to be different, very different, and in some aspects not for the better, because he was facing a problem of no longer being able to keep up with his friends, and that sucked worse than he was willing to accept.

“Your father has already mentioned the magic realm to you. This is not a common practice for me, because except for your father, I have never had a need to explain it to anyone. I’m a doctor; my work for the Department is different. And for those who do have magic, one quick practical demonstration serves better purpose than a hundred pages explaining.

“Sit,” Gaius ordered, and when Arthur plopped himself at the desk by the window, Gaius pushed a stack of books towards him. “You can only read these here. But first we have some papers to sign and your allegiance to swear.”

Arthur groaned. “Is it really necessary? I already said I won’t tell anyone, all right? It’s in my best interest, isn’t it? I get it.”

“Arthur.” Gaius looked at him with such disapproval in his eyes, Arthur actually felt shrinking by a few inches. “You promised Uther you’d take this seriously. You’re being trusted with knowledge that, in the wrong hands, may hurt not only you, but also your father and your friends. Are you willing to take such risk?”

“Well, no,” Arthur mumbled, feeling his cheeks becoming warmer. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“However you meant it, this is not a game. You do not get to toy with what is about to be handed to you. Your father was absolutely right -- knowledge is a weapon. A powerful, often deadly, weapon. Do not. Ever. Forget it.”

Arthur nodded and hung his head.

“There, boy.” Gaius patted his shoulder, his voice a lot softer. “You understand, and will take full responsibility, won’t you?”

“Yes,” Arthur answered, sighing, and then he thought of something. “Gaius?”

Gaius stopped at the door and looked at him expectantly.

“You said something about practical demonstrations.” Arthur rubbed his neck.

“Yes?”

“I just want to know, will Gwaine be getting one today?” Arthur couldn’t help it; he was way too curious about what Gwaine was doing at this same time at the end of the hallway. If he was even there anymore, and not somewhere magical and awesome.

“Well...” Gaius sighed. “You might’ve already noticed that your friend hasn’t been acting like himself lately.”

Arthur nodded, and worry about Gwaine stirred in his chest again. It wasn’t as if Arthur was his mom or boyfriend, but just the thought of something happening to his best friend unsettled him.

“Several months ago, Gwaine had learned about the existence of the magic realm on his own. Opened it by accident. And had absolutely no idea how to handle it, and was too afraid to speak to anyone. He wasn't doing well.”

“Oh god,” Arthur breathed. “Is he okay?”

“He is, but this is what we are trying to avoid here -- ignorance and negligence. The realm is an unforgiving place for those who don’t take it seriously or have no clue what they are doing there. Gwaine’s lucky, and I think he’s realizing it now.”

Arthur could now see why Gwaine seemed like a deer in headlights all the time, and he was torn between extreme envy and intense curiosity. What was this coveted magic realm that was so freeing and dangerous at the same time?

Suddenly, spending time cooped up in a room with bunch of books didn’t seem as dreadful anymore. He reached out and picked up the very first book from the stack in front of him and cracked it open.

“I think I’m ready to sign some forms,” he told Gaius and winked.

Gaius sighed and left, shaking his head and muttering something about not signing up to be a page boy for spoiled bosses and their no-less-spoiled teenage sons.

 

xxxxx

And so it happened. One day, Gwaine was a gawky, pimply teenager who cared about nothing but skipping classes in favor of smoking in secret between stinky recycle bins behind the school; next -- still gawky, pimply and sorely uneducated -- he somehow got practically half of the school fawning over him, regardless of age or gender. Gwaine was, as the Department classified, a "charis” -- a person with a strong ability to influence others. He had a natural gift of convincing people that he was the second coming, and they readily went for it. No wonder Uther was worried that Gwaine might do something stupid. He did. Often. But apparently, the Department didn’t see any harm in Gwaine’s exercising his natural charm, as long as he kept his magic a secret. So Gwaine got who he wanted, when he wanted, and what he wanted from them without fail.

Except for Arthur.

And Gwaine wanted. Never hid it, made enormous efforts, but no, Arthur was immune. He just didn’t know what he was missing, according to Gwaine.

Arthur was not in a hurry to find out; and since the word “no” was all Gwaine had ever gotten from him, he had to learn to respect it and to back off, until the next opportunity.

They talked about it. When the first shock of discovery of Gwaine’s magic wore off, and Gwaine became comfortable in his skin as a magic user, he had made his first pass at Arthur. By then, they were seventeen already. Cocky and horny, Gwaine was sure Arthur was in the bag the moment he crooked his finger. Why wouldn’t he be? Arthur was into guys, after all. Turned out, Arthur had his eyes on just one particular guy, and it wasn’t Gwaine. Leon didn’t care for Gwaine’s affections either, but that made more sense -- Leon loved tits. Never shut up about them. Besides, the only reason Gwaine even tried with Leon was because he wanted to make Arthur jealous. Arthur wasn't moved.

“Huh,” Gwaine said, a little heartbroken but still nursing hope he could change Arthur’s mind. “I wonder why it doesn’t work on you.”

“Maybe because we saw you wank? More than once?” Leon suggested as the three of them walked home after school one day.

Gwaine thought about it and grinned. “Nah, you both liked it.”

“Did not.” Leon tripped him, watched him fall, and then offered a hand to get up. “Perv McPervinson,” he added, sounding almost fond.

“Well, I know Arthur did.” Gwaine fluttered his lashes at Arthur.

“It was all right.” Arthur shrugged. “But it wasn’t like, you know, 'Ohhhh, I must kneel and blow you or I’ll die,' like everyone acts with you.”

“Huh,” Gwaine said again, his eyes clouded with wonder. “Weird.”

“Yeah,” Arthur agreed; it _was_ weird to see how others just wouldn’t leave Gwaine alone. “But you know, it’s for the better.” He slung his arm over Gwaine’s shoulder and Gwaine smiled, happy. “Someone needs to keep your head out of the gutter and your ass in check.”

Gwaine scoffed something about his ass being, _Perfectly fine as is, thank you very much. Some people just don’t have an appreciation for true art_.

"It's that guy Merlin, isn't it?" Gwaine asked Arthur one evening as they lazily flipped through TV channels at Gwaine’s house and sipped their beers. Uther had been giving his friends the cold shoulder lately. Arthur knew why, but stubbornly refused to acknowledge it. "Gauis’s nephew or something."

"What about him?" Arthur said, keeping his eyes on the TV.

"You fancy him. Ever since he started this fall, you've been mooning over him," Gwaine mused, watching Arthur's face, which was slowly turning pink.

"Have not." Arthur ducked his head.

"Oh, please.” Gwaine reached and pulled Arthur’s hair behind his ear. “I see how you look at him during lunch. And how come we’re always there when he is?”

“'Cause that’s when everyone eats?” Arthur suggested and took a long pull from his beer.

“Right. And a week ago? You went to see Gaius at the hospital."

"So? I had a sore throat."

"Dude, you broke your hand last year and didn't tell your father for a week. You hate hospitals. Sore throat?"

"We have regionals starting this weekend. Can't win ball if I'm sick, can I?"

"Yeah, sure." Gwaine made a face and scratched his brow. "So, did you ask Gaius about Merlin?"

"What for?"

"Dunno. Find out if Merlin likes guys? Or knows you're sweet on him?"

"Shut up." Arthur was sure his face was flaming red.

"Well, you're wasting your time," Gwaine pressed on. "Even if he does, he's clearly not into you.”

Arthur felt his heart contract in his chest, beating rapidly against his ribs. He tried to breathe slowly, evenly, so it wasn’t obvious how much Gwaine’s words affected him. It wasn't working.

Gwaine continued being cruel. “That’s what I say. He never even looks at you. And yesterday he ignored you when you said hi to him in the hall. Just kept walking."

“I--” Arthur swallowed, trying to get rid of a sudden resentment and hurt stuck in his throat. "He didn't hear me, that's all. Don't be a dick."

"Whatever." Gwaine stretched on the sofa and smiled at him lazily, tongue peeking between his teeth. "Wanna make out?"

Accidentally spilling beer all over Gwaine’s crotch was Arthur’s answer.

Arthur first saw Merlin walking across the campus on the day of senior year -- tall, lanky, hair tousled, and all bright somehow -- and Arthur knew. Not sure what yet, but there was this sense of familiarity and rightness for Arthur to stare at the boy and feel as if it was okay to get suddenly and fiercely possessive over and miss someone he'd only just met the first time in his life.

Mouth agape, he watched as the boy was closing the distance between them, and he wondered how no one else noted it yet -- the glow around him. And when some girl giggled next to him, commenting on the approaching guy’s big ears, he couldn’t figure out what she was even talking about. To Arthur, he was gorgeous and mesmerizing. And, God, yes, that was a disturbing thought.

“Who is he?” he asked in an embarrassingly shaky voice.

“That’s Merlin. He’s in the twelfth grade, like us,” someone supplied helpfully.

Merlin passed them by, looking straight ahead, and Arthur was afraid he was going to do something stupid. Like run after the guy and offer his lunch money and ask him on a date right on the spot. Thankfully, Gwaine was there to scuff the back of his head and tell him, “Close your mouth, dear. You’re catching flies.”

Arthur blinked and looked at Gwaine as if he’d never seen him before.

The following months Arthur pined. Like a pro. There was nothing wrong with liking someone a lot, was there? And Arthur liked. A lot. He liked Merlin’s stuck-out ears, his big bright eyes, and his shy smile. He had this firm belief in his gut that Merlin wasn’t just important -- he was going to be vital in Arthur’s life, and if that were true, there was nothing wrong with waiting a little for the right opportunity to talk, was there? He had to do it right, didn't he?

So what if Merlin’s Adam's apple bobbing while he drank his soda during lunch drove Arthur nuts almost on a daily basis? So what if the fantasy of kissing the bow of Merlin's upper lip made Arthur want to wank until he was sore, and he often did? So what if Merlin hadn't paid a lot of attention to anyone except for his two best friends Will and Freya, and Arthur envied Gwaine on more than one occasion for having his gift? Arthur didn’t have any gifts of his own, and maybe that was the problem. Maybe that was why he kept waiting to approach Merlin -- Arthur wasn’t anything special-- and he could, he could tell immediately, as soon as he saw Merlin, that he was.

So, there Arthur was -- wanting Merlin to like _him_ , to see _him_ , and knowing that he had absolutely nothing going for it to happen. Unless Merlin was into sports, which Arthur already figured he wasn’t. Or into video games, but for that he had to actually talk to Merlin and find out. What else was there? Arthur wasn’t ugly. That was a plus -- if Merlin was shallow enough to like Arthur for his looks.

Except Arthur wasn’t that shallow to expect it; he didn’t think... He didn’t like Merlin because his eyes were so vividly blue -- Arthur wasn’t sure the color was even natural. He didn’t like him because his hair was dark yet somehow shiny, and it looked so soft -- Arthur had to walk out of the lunch room on a few occasions, he wanted to touch it so badly. He didn’t like him because Merlin’s voice was deeper than Arthur expected and it did things to his insides Arthur wasn’t sure were legal. And when Merlin laughed...

Okay, Arthur was pretty shallow.

And he was stuck.

He just didn’t know how to go from liking someone -- to the point of feeling perpetually sick -- to actually doing something about it. It didn't mean he was a coward. It just meant he was working up to it -- for a really long time, which was fine, because Arthur could wait.

And then Gwaine did something so atrocious, it almost ended their friendship.

One spring day, Gwaine, Leon, and Arthur were all getting up from their lunch table, and Gwaine asked Arthur to hold his bag -- just for a sec, man -- and turned around. He grabbed an apple from Merlin’s tray as the guy was passing by and bit into it with a loud crunch.

“De-licious,” Gwaine moaned, swiping the juice off his bottom lip with his thumb and sucking it into his mouth. “Thank you... Merlin, right? I’ll pay you back.”

Arthur couldn't watch it. The moment Merlin nodded to Gwaine, eyes wide and mouth stretched into a genuine, admiring smile, Arthur knew it was over for him -- no one could resist Gwaine. He waited too long and it was too late.

So he fled.

He walked out of the cafeteria, out of the building, and walked and walked until he reached his house. He asked Uther that same evening for permission to transfer to another school. Maybe he was a coward, after all. Uther took Arthur by his chin, studied his face for a stretched moment, and asked if Arthur had trouble with any of his classes. When Arthur answered that no he didn't, Uther asked, "Then why are you trying to forego your responsibilities?" And that was that.

For two days, Arthur had an urge to puke every time he thought about going back to school. Uther mercifully ordered him to rest. Two days later, he wasn’t ready. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever be ready to accept the reality in which he forever played second fiddle to his gifted friends.

All in all, Arthur missed a full week of studies. He dodged emails, calls and texts. He refused to see Leon who offered his magic to help, which wasn’t nice, but Arthur couldn’t find it in himself to care. And Gwaine? Gwaine could go screw himself. Or maybe he was doing that with Merlin already. And just the thought of that had made Arthur want to throw up again.

Needless to say, Arthur looked like death warmed over when he made it back to classes. He didn’t care. All he needed to do was to survive one more month of school, and then he’d have a whole summer to forget about his stupid crush. He’d go stay at his mother's cottage by the seaside -- or something. He’d invite Leon.

And Gwaine could go screw himself. Or Merlin.

Arthur had bouts of nausea all morning while doing everything to avoid speaking or even looking at Gwaine, and Gwaine, for some strange reason, stayed away.

Time dragged, but somehow lunch came all too quickly and Arthur was torn. He didn’t want to act like a complete loser by not going to the cafeteria, yet he really, really wasn’t looking forward to seeing Gwaine all over Merlin -- and vice versa.

He wanted to puke again and decided he'd rather go to the library that day, and if only Leon wasn’t acting like a concerned citizen, he’d probably succeeded.

“Arthur, what's with you?” Leon asked, apparently waiting for his response for a while. “Are you still sick? Do you want me to...?"

"M’fine." Arthur forced a smile. "Let's go eat." Fuck. Was he a masochist or something?

Their regular lunch table was empty, and Arthur glanced at where Merlin usually sat with his friends, expecting Gwaine to be there. To his surprise, Merlin was sitting alone. He raised his head as Arthur moved his chair out to sit down and looked straight at Arthur. The smile that lit his face was so bright, Arthur’s breath caught in his throat.

Still smiling, Merlin got up, slung his bag over his shoulder, and... The rest of it Arthur watched as if in slow motion.

Merlin picked up his tray, pushed his chair in and started walking -- in Arthur’s direction. 

Arthur wasn’t breathing. Somewhere next to him Leon was saying something, asking a question, elbowing him in the ribs. Arthur didn’t move. Merlin was smiling, his eyes trained Arthur’s face, and he was walking toward Arthur’s table.

And the only thought that kept flipping in Arthur’s mind was -- did he remember using deodorant this morning? Because... yeah... he was sweating bullets, and it would be a disaster if he had forgotten.

“Hi,” Merlin said, stopping on the opposite side of Arthur’s table.

Arthur made a sound that wasn’t by any means intelligible.

“May I sit down?” Merlin asked, still smiling, although it faltered a little.

“Uh--” Arthur cleared his throat. “Gwaine’s not here,” he said.

The smile started slowly fading from Merlin face. “I-- Gwaine?”

“Arthur’s being a bit of an idiot, never mind him,” Leon interjected, and Arthur glared at him.

Merlin darted a glance at Leon as if he had just noticed him, lowered his head, and looked back at Arthur through his lashes. His smile was very small now. “I don’t think it’s possible.”

Leon stopped chewing. He looked at Arthur, who couldn’t stop his jaw from slacking down a bit, then at Merlin, then at Arthur again. “Ah,” he said, plopping his sandwich down on his tray and rising on his feet. “Well, you two can figure that part out,” he added and left the table.

Somewhere in his peripheral vision, Arthur noted how Leon intercepted Gwaine walking into the room and hauled him out, ignoring the protests coming from him. Leon’s magic was a lot more subtle than Gwaine’s, as Arthur had come to learn over the past year. He had a gift of healing. Minor things -- cuts, bruises, small fractures -- and for the love of him could never help a common head cold, and was always almost comically apologetic for it. Especially for all that time when Arthur kept getting injured on the football field, and Leon couldn’t reveal that he had an ability to help him. He was now trying to make up for it in whatever way he could.

“I guess I should thank you,” Arthur told Merlin, who was still standing with his tray in his hand and looking at Arthur. “For not agreeing with the idiot part.” He was finally able to manage something resembling a smirk and felt great about that.

“Oh, no, I totally agree; you are -- _such_ an idiot.” Merlin finally placed his tray on the table and sat down. He was smiling, too: fondly, brilliantly. “I was saying it’s impossible to _never mind_ you. _Idiot._ ”

And if Arthur thought about arguing even for one moment, his intentions were thwarted as (he swore it was true and Merlin had always denied it) Merlin’s eyes glowed gold for a second, and at that same time Arthur was robbed of any form of speech.

 

xxxxx

Arthur is out of breath, but he keeps moving.

It’s not a slam dunk by far, but he makes it to the next level with less difficulty than he expected.

Leon tries to follow him, pushing himself forward and panting with exertion. Grunts out, “Arthur, you're on _three_... I can’t.”

Arthur knows that, but _he_ can. He glances back once as he leaves Leon behind and steps deeper into the realm. The air whips across his face, robbing him of breath. He gasps and presses his fingers to his neck, needing a moment to adjust, and that’s exactly how long it takes for him to lose track of his target.

“Hell,” Arthur says through his teeth, trying to catch his breath.

It’s different here. It doesn’t smell like a dumpster and it’s not infested with flies, which is typical for level one of the magic realm; the ground doesn’t quake with moisture, threatening to swallow his shoes, or suck him in as a whole if he stays too long in one spot (which means Arthur isn’t fond of the second level, either).

The ground is reassuringly solid here, and the air is fine. It smells almost pleasant -- fresh almost -- but that’s where the normality ends, because yes, Arthur can see his own outstretched arms seeking purchase, and his feet as he’s making tentative steps, but other than that... Glancing left, right, and center, he finds no walls, no ceiling, not a single object to rest his eyes on. There’s nothing around him but void. He can’t tell where the source of the light is coming from; there is no hint of another person present, no sound aside from his clothes rustling as he moves, and his ragged breathing.

This is not a good sign.

Swearing under his breath, Arthur takes a few more tentative steps, thankful for the solid ground under his feet, even though it seems like he walks on air.

The lack of any point of reference in space is disorienting. He feels his heart wild in his throat, and he can taste it -- his own thrill, and his fear.

Yes, he just ran a long distance on unnatural speed, but he’s not worried about being tired in that sense -- his body is well-trained physically. And this job that he does -- he’s good at it -- so the thrill of a chase is familiar and justified. But that’s not why he’s so worked up.

He’s frantic because it’s _realm three_.

He is on level three, where he doesn’t belong -- not without special permission and extensive training. And when it comes to facing the truth, when it really matters, he’s not too shallow to admit it -- this shit right here, him getting this far, it’s fucking scary. He’s barely mastered staying long enough in the second realm, but third...

The truth is Arthur would have never gotten here by himself if it wasn’t for the new artifact recently obtained by the Department and generously passed on to Arthur’s team. The label on the envelope it arrived in stated:

  
**TS**  
 **Object:** Artificial Intelligence with strong traces of magic    
                              **Level:** Three. Not allowed beyond the tested level without special permission   
 **Sealed on:** May 24, 2013                                                   
                **Special instructions:** If seal broken, do not retrieve from the package  
                      **Assigned to:** Arthur Pendragon, cannot be transferred to other persons

Gwaine laughed when Arthur pulled the artifact from the envelope; one look and he labeled it “a choker”. He was kind of right about it - the artifact was a brown leather strip with an attached round pendant made of brass. Gwaine whistled as he read the description of the artifact over Arthur’s shoulder.

“So ‘Level 3 tested’ is just a cover,” Gwaine said. "Looks like it can get you a lot further, potentially?”

“Potentially,” Arthur said, narrowing his eyes at the inscription around the edge of the pendant, the words in the language he didn’t speak but recognized.

He traced the letters with the tip of his index finger, sensing exactly what the label promised on the bag -- strong traces of magic. Even Arthur -- a non-magical user -- could feel it buzzing against his skin. He wished he could understand the words. He regretted his supreme lack of drive back in the day when he had a chance to learn some Old Religion speak and didn’t. He was busy.

Yeah, he certainly was busy. First with pining over Merlin, and then later, with shagging Merlin -- or thinking of new ways to be shagged by Merlin. Or trailing after Merlin around the campus. And then trailing after Merlin around Camelot. He’d still be doing that -- he’d follow him around the world if it were up to him. But it wasn’t. Arthur closed his eyes.

“Want me to help you to put it on, princess?” Gwaine's hand on his shoulder startled him.

Arthur looked at his friend’s smiling face.

Gwaine squeezed Arthur’s shoulder carefully and winked. “You know you want to.”

Arthur smiled back. “Look at you, all eager to make me a guinea pig.” He patted Gwaine’s hand, which could mean either “Thanks, friend,” or “Fuck off.” Neither of them needed clarification.

“You’re our fearless leader. Who'd test it, if not you? And as if you’d let me.” Gwaine touched the choker in Arthur’s hand and hissed at the contact. “Do you feel this sucker?”

Arthur nodded. “It gets right under your skin, doesn’t it?”

"Good Luck. Don't choke while on your power trip." Gwaine pulled a piece of gum and started chewing loudly.

"You wish." Arthur dropped the choker back in the bag.

Gwaine exhaled a long minty breath into Arthur's face. "You know it."

Arthur blinked, wavering for a moment, then rolled his eyes. "I should sack you for misusing the Department property."

"I don't know what you’re talking about," Gwaine said, his face still too close to Arthur's.

"The potion, Gwaine. The vial is marked, as you well know. And I’m telling you, if I find it missing more than a drop, I'm turning you in for abusing your position."

"Or,” Gwaine stepped into Arthur’s space, his nose almost touching Arthur’s, “I could let you abuse mine. In any position you like." He grinned lazily.

“Gwaine...” Arthur closed his eyes. That was something he did a lot -- close his eyes to avoid facing a problem -- and so did Gwaine, while the problem glared unabashedly right at them, waiting to steamroll them both if they ignored it for too long.

“You shouldn’t have touched the potion,” Arthur said and forced himself to look at his friend, finally meeting his dark, slightly glazed-over eyes. “You can do the job on your own. You can.”

At some point Arthur was going to figure out how to address Gwaine’s developing dependency on charm potions, but for now he had to remind himself that he trusted Gwaine -- with his life even. He could still send him on an assignment alone, armed only with his killer smile, because Gwaine was a charis, and a brilliant one.

“There's a crowd gathering outside of university. Someone opened the realm and is working them up into a frenzy with small but consistent doses of magic,” Gwaine answered Arthur’s earlier words. “I’m drained after last night, so I needed a little boost to go in.”

Arthur didn't want to ask what Gwaine had done last night, since he knew it would be like opening a can of worms -- all kinds of filthy details would spill out -- and he simply wasn’t interested. So he concentrated on the important stuff, such as the fact that there was magic being worked on unsuspected people, and it was Arthur and his team's job to neutralize it and catch the offenders.

“You will need backup,” Arthur said and took a tentative step back, testing the strength of his knees. They seemed to be holding him up fine.

Gwaine watched him and chuckled. “One day, princess. You’ll give in.”

Gwaine’s eyes flashed at him for a moment so quick, Arthur would've missed it if he wasn't already on guard.

"Oh for--” He shoved his shoulder. “ _Fuck off_."

Gwaine laughed but stepped away.

Arthur read the assignment. A planned peaceful gathering of students protesting the spike in tuition fees was happening that afternoon, and the demonstrators were being slowly turned into uncontrollable cabbage-heads, brainwashed by magic. Dark magic. There was no one better for this job than Gwaine, but he needed to get to the protest before the crowd turned into a pack of wild animals. Arthur wasn’t going to admit it out loud, but taking a bit of a potion to turn around a crowd of a hundred wasn’t a bad idea; Gwaine had done the right thing.

“I’ll have Galahad on standby,” Arthur said after reading the full version of the assignment and the outcome assessment.

“I’ll straighten them out without using the realm.” Gwaine was close again, breathing out every word. “Please, Arthur, I don’t need help.”

“That’s ‘sir’ to you,” Arthur said, tired of this game; he was absolutely done with Gwaine today. “I decide what you do or do not need. Is that clear?”

“But Ar--” Gwaine started; Arthur's _Call-me-Arthur-again-I-dare-you glare_ cut him off on the spot. 

“Sir,” Gwaine enunciated then and bowed with flourish. “Permission to complete the assignment alone. I’m well-equipped for the mission. Would you like to test my strength?”

Arthur gave Gwaine a long, scrutinizing look. Gwaine stood with his shoulders squared and his feet apart, firmly holding Arthur's gaze. In a v-neck navy t-shirt and khaki cargo pants low on his hips, he looked mighty fine, Arthur had to admit that. It didn’t matter. Gwaine was still Gwaine -- a flirt, a bit of a tosser who didn’t know when to quit when he wanted something, and a best friend -- and that’s where the line was drawn for Arthur. Always.

“When did you take the potion?” he asked.

Gwaine glanced at the clock. “Twenty-two minutes ago."

“Then go now.” Arthur turned to his desk.

“Sure. But--" Gwaine coughed. "What about my hug, sir?” He placed his hand on the back of Arthur’s neck, nudging him to turn around. “And a kiss for good luck?”

“I’m about to change my mind about sacking you,” Arthur said, jabbing an elbow into Gwaine’s stomach. “Go now, or I’ll give the assignment to someone else,” he warned, and when Gwaine refused to move, yelled, “Galahad!”

Gwaine shot out of the room like a bullet, and Arthur stepped behind his desk and sagged down. He didn’t want Gwaine, but the ass played dirty often, and resisting magic and charming bastards was not his strong suit. He thought with longing about a bottle of Jack Daniels in the cabinet at his apartment -- he wouldn't mind a break.

Hurray to wishful thinking. Two hours later, and way before Arthur had a chance to test the choker on his terms, he was working his own new assignment, chasing a guy named Mordred -- a magic user who was reported, thankfully in time, performing an illegal ritual involving pulling life from a druid girl.

 

xxxxx

Lured to level three, Arthur feels magic seeping through his skin, fueling him with a sort of power that's new and terrifying.

It’s as strong as it is foreign. For lack of a better word in Arthur’s vocabulary, it’s... _dumb_.

It doesn’t pump his heart with adrenaline or make his senses sharper -- and fuck, he could use that just about now.

It’s as if he’s been injected with mercury -- his body’s heavy yet responsive, muscles fueled with magic -- and making him feel as if he’s too big for his own skin, bursting at the seams. He was supplied with a fair warning along with the artifact -- just like with any other, he’ll need to build up his tolerance, start using it just for a few minutes at first, and he knows now why. After a while, the unnatural essence of it not only gives, it takes, too. It feeds on Arthur’s own energy, and it starts draining him away. Draining faster than he can afford in this situation, which means his time is running out. It’s almost up.

Almost, but not yet, because it’s not Arthur’s first trip into the realm, and he’s got a few tricks up his sleeve. Literally.

“Arthur, you’re fading. Arthur--”

“I got him, Leon,” Arthur says, and turns around slowly.

It’s a lie, but it’s also a game Arthur knows how to play very well. The important part of it is not the chase or whether you’re able to move easily from one level to another.

It’s the patience, the who can better control their nerves part. And the little shit Arthur’s chasing right now has nothing on Arthur’s patience. Yes, the guy has magic -- not much of it anymore, drained by the ritual -- but enough to get away, which Arthur isn’t going to let happen. The fact that the guy can slide into the next level without much effort while Arthur’s struggling to keep up will not stop him. He's never backed away from any challenges before; why break the tradition now?

Arthur moves slowly, his hands spread. He listens, eyes sharp for the tiniest movement, smallest indication of--

A blow to his chest knocks the air out of him. Arthur staggers back, his hands still outstretched.

“You fucking--” he breathes.

He’s done playing.

Rounding up his fingers over the choker, he presses it into his skin, feeling another wave of power surging through him. He shakes his hand, letting the sleeve of his jacket flop down, and flicks his middle finger against the hem. Another artifact falls into his hand. This one -- a disabler -- fits nicely and familiarly against his palm.

“He’s about to move again,” Leon howls. “Behind you, Arthur! Moving now!”

Arthur sees it -- an almost imperceptible twitch of air in his peripheral vision -- and he pounces, making a blind attempt to capture his target.

He misses, and it makes him unbelievably mad.

“Leon!” he roars.

“I’m here, partner!”

Leon’s distorted silhouette comes into Arthur’s view. “I still see you. You’re fine.” His face is a blur behind the shaky barrier in the dimensions separating them, and his voice is faint, barely an echo, but it’s there. Thank dear god for small favors -- at least Arthur still has this connection left with his partner. Somehow it’s reassuring.

He strains and strains his vision, searching for movement, but as far as he can see it’s nothing but an oscillating empty space around him. He knows it’s far from the truth in reality -- magic reality, anyway. Blame the unsophisticated eye of a non-magic who can’t recognize what might be right in front of his nose. Unlike Leon, all he can do is rely on the artifact and his trained body.

He closes his eyes and tries to concentrate on his target ahead. Or maybe behind him. Or...

“Where the hell are you?” he whispers and touches his neck. “Come on, don’t be a coward,” he says a little louder. “I know you’re here--”

“Arthur, he went deeper. He’s gone. It’s over,” Leon announces.

No, it’s not. Arthur sets his jaw and turns his back to where Leon is standing. He doesn’t want his friend to see his face, because fucking hell, Arthur already knows what his next move is going to be, and he doesn’t want Leon fussing unnecessarily at the most inconvenient time. Right now, all he can do is follow through with his decision and pray to God he’s got what it takes.

Arthur shivers and then takes a deep breath.

“Arthur,” Leon warns. He knows Arthur well enough to predict his way of thinking. “No. You can’t. It’s not safe.”

“And where’s the fun in that?” Arthur mutters. “Go take care of the girl; she needs it,” he says, and quickly strides away from Leon, ignoring his fading shouts.

A moment later he feels a violent tug on his neck and knows that he made it.

 _Level four_.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The air in this realm is vicious -- sandpaper against every open patch of his skin, it attacks his eyes, penetrates his mouth, goes for his lungs.

He can see nothing but a blur in the air at first, but he grabs at it -- successfully, to his surprise -- and pulls it firmly onto himself. Then he throws his arm over and tightens it around something solid enough to know he’s got someone headlocked. Someone who smells like fear and anger, who won’t go down without a fight if Arthur doesn’t seize the moment. The choker around his own neck tightens, too, and the pendant starts burning hot against his skin. And Arthur understands; he is absolutely certain that this is how his borrowed magic responds to the magic of another person being threatened.

Getting weaker with every ticking moment, he feels the energy being physically pulled out of him and he chokes, fighting to stay in control and to keep a secure hold on his target; the moment he gives in one slight bit he gets hauled up and dragged forward by a strong force.

He digs his heels into the surface under him while curling his fingers into the target’s flesh -- no matter what, he cannot let him go. And that’s the problem, because his target is a clever fucking bastard who turns out to have more power than Arthur anticipated, even after supposedly losing most of it during the ritual he tried to perform.

It almost happens. He almost runs out of oxygen, and his entire being protests the possibility. He has a purpose here in the magic realm -- he’s here to stop evil from harming good, and isn’t it a general idea that the good guys always win? Isn’t the artifact designed to help him? If so, then what the everloving fuck?

“No,” he grits out. And concentrates all of his mind on the grip of his arms, setting the last of his energy to fight off the blunt, vicious pull of magic ripping out of his ribcage. “Not yet,” he gasps.

To his surprise, it listens. The grip of the choker on his neck eases.

At that same moment, he feels the weight under his arms shift, and with a strained sound, a body blooms into shape and sags against him.

He looks into the pale face of the guy he’s finally captured and loses any triumph he's began to feel. The person in his trembling arms is just a boy with a round, soft face -- so young, Arthur shakes his head.

“Oh you stupid, stupid kid, don’t you know it’s not a game?” he rasps.

They collapse as neither of them is able to stand anymore and jostle on the ground gracelessly until Arthur manages to press the disabler against the boy’s neck.

”I don’t want to use it," he pants. "The pain of it, Mordred... you never want that, all right? Stop, it's over.”

In response, Mordred arches his back and kicks his legs out, but Arthur simply slumps on top of him, the weight of his body heavy enough to stop the young man from fighting. And thank God, because Arthur is so weak, he’s seeing spots.

“I am going to turn you over, slowly.” Arthur knows that Mordred’s in no better shape than he is.

The guy doesn’t answer. Doesn’t move. Arthur hears him sniffle.

“Come on,” he murmurs, pushing himself up, and carefully turns him over.

He folds Mordred’s hands on his chest, holding him while putting away the disabler and taking out a thin chain made of iron -- another artifact -- designed to restrain by magic. He hopes it activates, considering how unpredictable and even violent magic has been with him today.

Mordred doesn’t struggle. He just stares at Arthur, flecks of gold swimming in his green eyes. His glare is full of accusation and pain, but when the chain wraps and tightens around his wrists, magic fans across Arthur’s face. There’s no heat or malice in it, all boy’s power is gone. He moans quietly, “No, please.”

“You have the right to the remainings of your magic. Anything you say can and will be used against you in the Supernatural Court of Law...” Arthur rattles off, knowing well that neglecting to read the suspect his rights end in the charges being thrown away.

“Let me go, please.” Mordred lifts his head. “Tell them I knocked you out or something. Just please, please let me go.” Tears start streaming from the corners of his eyes, and for a moment Arthur forgets that this person is a criminal. The boy is eighteen, a good student, and has a spotless record. This is what Arthur hates about his job -- it’s so hard sometimes to not see a person, a human being behind the veil of dark magic. Sometimes it’s easy to forget that those with dark magic know how to lie, manipulate, and take what they want, even if it means taking an innocent life.

“You attempted to perform an illegal sacrifice. You almost killed Kara Wynn,” Arthur says and, exercising inhuman will since his own body fails to listen to the commands, hauls Mordred into an upright position.

“It wasn’t like that. I love her.”

“Sure. But your Gods love her more.” Arthur respects all religions, and while his heart disagrees vehemently with some of the more brutal traditions, like the sacrifice of a never-touched girl once a year, he understand he has no right to judge other people’s beliefs. And if the sacrifice was granted by the Department, they wouldn’t have been here now.

“You don’t understand. Kara will die.”

“And whose fault is that, now? It was your idea.” Arthur tugs firmly on Mordred’s restraints, making sure they’re secure enough. “Your Gods get the girl, you get more power. Turned out, there are consequences, didn’t it?”

“No, no, I was trying to save her!” Mordred weeps, quietly, licking tears off his lips, his face a grimace of pain. “I still can, I’m sure of it. I just need a bit of time to recoup. Please let me go.”

“Not going to happen, boy. You’ve committed a crime. You’ll be lucky if Kara survives this ordeal; pray to your Gods that she does.”

Mordred stops crying abruptly; his mouth twists into a scowl. The air trembles around them, and if Arthur hadn’t be so completely drained, he would’ve probably gone for the disabler again. Instead he just wonders where the boy’s magic’s coming from.

“Pray to my Gods?” the guy spits out. “Our Gods have been _generous_ with their gift of time for her. And fucking Uther Pendragon denied my request to...”

“I suggest you shut up right now.” Arthur might not always agree with Uther’s principles or methods -- in fact, he disagrees with a lot of them -- but he can’t allow some criminal, a liar who uses magic to kill, to speak ill of his father. “We are done. I command you to exit the realm.”

And Arthur fully intends to do just that as he pulls Mordred to follow him, so ready to get out of the realm, when Mordred does something completely unexpected -- he twists his hands over Arthur’s in some complicated flip Arthur’s never seen before and manages to free himself from his grip. Before Arthur can do anything to stop him, he throws his arms over Arthur’s head and forces their foreheads together.

“Then it will be you,” Mordred says and drops on his knees, dragging Arthur down with him. While still keeping Arthur in a painfully tight embrace, he looks into his eyes and starts canting a spell in a low, guttural voice.

Arthur wants to twist out of Mordred’s deadly embrace, to get up, to yell, but it’s as if he’s been gagged and wrapped into a tight cocoon -- he’s lost all his ability to move; he can't even blink.

 _His Gods are sure not picky_ , Arthur remembers thinking. The black spots in his vision and the whooshing of wild magic in his ears press in on him, more and quickly, and then, he remembers nothing.

 

xxxxx


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

 

xxxxx

There’s a certain part of coming to after being knocked out Arthur hates the most.

It’s not the pain that jabs him between the eyes as soon as he opens them, and not the dizziness that comes immediately after. Although, yes, barfing is never fun. The most annoying part is the people who choose to fuss over him and make a big deal out of nothing. Arthur hates to be fussed over.

When he opens his eyes this time, he sees someone’s blurry face inches away from his own and he groans.

“I’m fine” he says, or means to say, but the words come out more like “mmffffnnn”. And no wonder why -- there’s an oxygen mask covering his face. Predictably, the pain between his eyes arrives, and he takes a deep breath. The oxygen filling his lungs helps the dizziness, thank fuck.

“G’way,” he tries again, swatting at the person. Not successfully, because his arm’s not cooperating. Well, this sucks, he thinks, and attempts to push himself up on his elbows. It’s not happening; his body is completely wrung out. He tries to uncross his eyes, concentrating on the face looming over him. A paramedic, he realizes as he's finally able to focus his vision well enough to tell by the uniform.

“Please keep still, sir,” the paramedic tells him, first fixing his mask, then taking his hand to check his pulse.

He grunts disapprovingly, but the paramedic keeps a firm grip on him and says, “Let me do my job or I will sedate you.”

Arthur sighs, letting him do whatever, and turns his face away.

He sees Leon, standing helplessly a few feet away, talking on his phone.

He contemplates getting up again. It might not be an easy feat with the EMT guy hanging off his arm, the mask over his face, and the belt strapped over his waist, holding him securely to the gurney, but having his mobility limited is not what worries him. Being temporarily restrained shouldn't cause this hollow feeling that keeps expanding in his chest -- a feeling of utter helplessness -- as he realizes there's not even a spark of strength left in him. Even worse -- it’s like it’s dropping into negative digits, as if his mere essence is seeping out of him, along with his will to do anything. Anything at all. A chill runs down his spine when it dawns on him why. He jerks his head, growling out a frustrated sound. He moves his jaw from side to side, tries to crane his neck. The choker is still there, tight like a leash -- and getting tighter.

Shit. He snaps his eyes to the paramedic and opens his mouth, moaning loudly.

“Sir,” the paramedic asks. “What is it?”

“The arrrrrr....” Arthur is trying. Trying. And failing again. Everything goes black for the second time around.

 

 

 

xxxxx

When Arthur opens his eyes next time, he’s in a hospital room. He stares at the white of the ceiling, which is blindingly bright and spotless. His body is free of any kind of pain, heavy and weightless at the same time, his head empty. It feels kind of nice. Surprisingly, there are no tubes or cords wrapped around him, and he breathes a sigh of relief. It must not be that bad for him, then.

Of course, Arthur can’t have nice things for too long. Someone coughs and sags down on the corner of his bed, and it takes a few moments for Arthur to blink away the white spots dancing in front of his eyes before he can recognize who it is.

"Merr--” he croaks and shifts to get up.

Merlin shakes his head in warning to stay put. Arthur’s too tired anyway.

He asks the first thing that pops in his mind. “Where have you been?” And then he remembers -- it doesn’t matter where Merlin’s been; Merlin left him. Vanished from his life over a year ago without looking back. And now he doesn’t have to tell him anything. So the question is not where Merlin’s been, but why is he here now?

“I didn’t ask for you, you know?” Arthur says. He would’ve remembered if he’d done something so stupid.

Merlin doesn’t answer. He scoots closer and takes Arthur’s hand in his. His fingers are steady and warm, almost uncomfortably so, and when Merlin squeezes and holds Arthur's hand as if with some intent, it's like when blood starts circulating again after being in freezing cold for too long. He feels warmth rushing in, from the fingertips and up, up, up. It tingles, then itches, then aches. Every joint of every finger, every pore of his skin aches for Merlin, but he can’t allow it. Whatever the reason Merlin came today, Arthur doesn’t need his pity. So he pulls his hand away.

“I want you to leave,” he says firmly.

“Oh, Arthur,” Merlin says and touches his cheek, and the torture of needing Merlin -- physically, inexplicably -- starts all over again. “I can’t leave you here.”

Arthur looks at Merlin, studies him. His eyes are not as bright as they used to be, Arthur notes -- not as blue, somehow -- and he doesn’t like it. His lips are chapped and dry. The black button-up loosely hanging off Merlin's shoulders reminds him of the one Merlin wore the day he left, and Arthur finds it hard to breathe, reliving that moment again when he realized Merlin was gone, Merlin wasn't coming back.

“But you did,” he says. He can be stubborn, even if it hurts him.

Merlin's face pinches. “I am so sorry about what happened.”

“No.” Arthur shakes his head. “It’s okay. I understand. I always expected it, you know. The rug to be pulled from under my feet.”

“Oh, Arthur.”

Arthur sighs and looks down, unable to handle Merlin’s puzzled and hurt expression.

“I always tried, you know?” Arthur closes his eyes. This confession is embarrassing, although Merlin must know by now, how could he not know? They’ve argued about it. Merlin -- a gorgeous and powerful mage, respected and awe-inspiring. And Arthur -- with not even a spark of magic inside him, a spoiled prat with an unhealthy love for football and action flicks. It was a miracle they’d lasted that long together. “I’m sorry I was useless to you.”

“Arthur, please, no--”

“No, Merlin, please don’t say it. I know you.” Arthur’s breath catches. “Knew you. You did the right thing. It's been a year, and I’m sure we’ve both moved on.”

The look on Merlin’s face is heartbreaking, and Arthur doesn’t understand. Wasn’t it what Merlin wanted? But then Merlin nods, his smile kind and gentle. “Yeah, yeah, I guess we did. I always wanted you happy, Arthur.”

“Well, I am.” Arthur juts his chin, although he doubts it looks impressive while he’s lying down in bed. “Please leave,” he whispers, afraid that if Merlin stays any longer, he’ll start begging him for something he’ll regret.

Merlin slants a long and sad look at Arthur. “I’ll watch after you the best I can,” he finally says.

Arthur snorts. “Why? It's not your responsibility anymore, and haven’t you heard? I’m the first non-magic user who’s allowed into the realm, and if I’m not mistaken, I’ve just visited the fourth level. I'm sure I can go further. I will.”

Merlin’s eyes flash with something Arthur can’t decipher. Fear? Disappointment? Regret? The next moment his eyes blaze with gold, his forehead touching Arthur's and his hands connecting with Arthur’s chest, and Merlin presses them against Arthur's ribs hard. Once, twice.

“What--” Arthur gasps, trying to push Merlin away. His chest and forehead hurt, burning. “Mer---”

It hurts more. And it hurts. And hurts. Goddamn it, this pain is unbearable, like everything else Merlin, and Arthur thinks that maybe he’ll never be free of him. And doesn't it make him a pathetic schmuck?

 

 

 

xxxxx

“Clear!” Arthur hears a yell, and he’s being jabbed in the chest again.

“Rrrrfffrrrr,” Arthur attempts to argue. Merlin’s got to quit hurting him. Arthur’s so done with this nonsense.

“I’ve got a pulse!” Merlin yells in a strange voice, mocking and too low.

“Merlin, you bully, what?” Arthur wants to say, but he’s being spun and jerked from side to side, then lifted in the air; all of it happens very fast. The feeling is far from pleasant, and he’s definitely going to throw up now. Arthur moans, trying to swallow the nausea down. For some reason, this reminds him of the one time when he missed Merlin so much and got so drunk, he smashed their entire kitchen and everything they had shared there together with just his fists. Arthur’s always been a bit on a mad side when drunk, which doesn’t happen often; he just needed the pain at that time, so he welcomed it, refusing Leon’s help. His knuckles took a long time to heal; the physical ache was tangible and distracting.

The next wave of nausea is too strong to hold off; Arthur groans loudly, feeling his whole body spasm. Whoever’s next to him -- he hopes not Merlin, because that would be beyond embarrassing -- turns Arthur to the side and holds him while he vomits, convulsing again and again, until it's nothing but dry heaving. Something is being jabbed into his arm, and Arthur wants to protest, knowing well what that means, but all he manages is a groaning sound, and what does he know, before he can clear his throat -- he’s out again.

 

 

 

xxxxx

“Is Merlin here?” is the first thing Arthur asks as soon as he can think and talk at the same time, and he scolds himself immediately, because what he really wants to say is, “Don’t let Merlin near me.”

“Is Merlin a relative?” the nurse asks.

“Well, no,” Arthur mumbles. Merlin used to be more -- so much more -- for the longest time. Kind of still is, if Arthur’s honest with himself. He knows deep down that there was no Merlin; it was all his realm-induced hallucination, or just a dream, but it doesn’t make the memory of it feel any less real or hurt less.

“The only person with permission on file is your father,” the nurse says. “We have to monitor you for a little longer before we allow other visitors.”

“My father’s been here?”

“Oh. Sorry, no. Not during my shift.”

“Have I been here long?” Arthur asks, sighing.

“They brought you in last night, so almost twenty hours.” The nurse’s voice is steady and reassuring. She fiddles with the IV bag hooked to Arthur’s arm, then marks something in the tablet by the foot of his bed. “We haven’t done anything special to you, sir. We just let you sleep. You seemed to be completely drained and we kept you hydrated. Surprisingly, there doesn’t seem anything else wrong with you.”

The nurse steps closer to Arthur and leans in. He notes that the top of her white starched uniform is unbuttoned, revealing the two tight globes of her breasts and the gold pendant in a shape of a tear sitting snugly between them. The nametag on the lapel says, "Vivian." A lock of blonde hair is curling at her ear, loose from the nurse cap; it’s so expressly alluring, Arthur doubts it’s by accident. She smells good and has bright green eyes, and if Arthur was into the opposite sex, he probably would’ve made an attempt at flirting, and judging by the coy smile on her lips, she probably wouldn’t have minded.

Vivian keeps smiling as she murmurs in his ear, “You're marked as ‘level four’ in your chart, but the doctor found such a small dose of magic in you, it's a puzzlement.”

“I don’t have ma--.” Arthur stops himself as he processes what he’s just been told. It is possible that... He reaches for the choker. It’s not there, but its presence could’ve been the only explanation.

“Do you have my things?” Arthur asks. “Where are my things?” he says louder.

“Oh, no worries, sir.” Vivian pats him lightly, aiming for his shoulder and landing somewhere closer to his chest. “All your belongings are sealed and in storage. You’ll get them when we think you’re ready.”

“When you think I’m ready,” Arthur repeats.

“Your kind tends to slip out before they’re fully recovered.” The nurse gives him a blinding smile. “We’d rather you follow the doctor’s orders.”

“My kind?” Arthur asks. This is getting ridiculous. Is she mocking him?

“Yeah. The hero kind. Well, you know --”

“Vivian, you may go,” a stern voice interrupts the nurse. “Mr. Pendragon requires more rest.”

The nurse whirls around to look at the old man who’s walking through the door with a determined step and heading to Arthur’s bed.

“I’ll take that,” he says, removing the tablet from Vivian’s hands. He taps on the screen, reads something, then looks up at the nurse and raises a brow at her. The brow disappears somewhere in his hairline so fast, one might think it’s been pulled by a string. “You’re still here,” he notes.

Vivian doesn’t seem affected by the scare tactic performed independently by one facial feature. She turns to Arthur. “Look, it’s the doctor,” she mouths and points dramatically.

“Doctor who?” Arthur asks back in a stage whisper.

“You know very well who,” the doctor says. “Or I can remind you by ordering a couple of tetanus shots. You seemed to love those as a child.”

Arthur shudders. “No one loves tetanus shots. And I’m not a child any more.”

“The jury is still out.”

Arthur grins. "Gaius, hello."

Gaius grins back, and Arthur thinks that he doesn’t care how odd it seems, but he’s missed the man’s unnaturally large teeth and that scary brow that somehow defies all known laws of physics. And as Gaius places his large hand on Arthur’s forehead, he closes his eyes and melts into the warm touch, knowing it's pointless to argue with this man while secretly enjoying this small bit of affection, even if just for a short moment.

Arthur sighs and opens his eyes again a few moments later. Vivian is no longer in the room.

“My boy,” Gaius says, “you gave us quite a scare.”

Arthur grimaces.

Gaius removes his hand from Arthur’s forehead and sits down on the edge of the bed.

“Comes with the job," Arthur says, shifting a little to allow more space. "You know how it goes, Gaius.”

“Indeed, I do. And that’s what I don’t understand. Why do you keep doing this to yourself?”

Arthur can’t answer that question. There’s no way to explain, no easy way to express his thoughts without revealing his borderline obsessive interest in magic. In being as close to magic as possible, in being a part of something that lets him feel magic. And if it means risking his life while doing a good deed for others, so be it. He couldn’t ask for anything more. So he goes for his usual. "Someone has to work on keeping the Balance. It wasn't a big deal. I hate people fussing--"

Gaius listens, but not really; Arthur knows that expression.

“Arthur,” Gaius interrupts. “I know you hate hospitals, but I need to keep you until the morning.” Then he adds, “And that’s an order,” when he sees that Arthur wants to object. “Don’t make me call your father.”

“Yes, sir,” Arthur responds immediately, like a scolded child. “I’ll stay overnight... but that’s it!”

“That’s all I ask.” Gaius pats Arthur’s arm. “Your father asked me to let you know that if you pull one more stunt like last night, he’ll make sure to revoke all your user’s privileges.”

“He can't do that,” Arthur mutters, knowing well that yes, his father can. If Uther decides that he’s had enough of Arthur’s “petulant antics,” the Department will revoke Arthur’s access to the artifacts and therefore to realm.

Gaius looks at Arthur’s frowning expression and says, “I told him you’re fine. That it was nothing serious. I lied for you, Arthur, because I know this is important to you.”

“Gaius, please.” Arthur knows where this is going, and he simply doesn’t have the strength for it right now.

“I know. Trust you? I’m trying, Arthur, but I need you to be careful.”

“I am.”

“Just like you were last night.”

Arthur doesn’t answer, and Gaius sighs. "Leon and Gwaine are here to see you,” he says after a heavy moment of silence. “Would you like them to come in?”

Arthur nods.

“Boys!” Gaius calls, getting up. He steadies himself against the stand on the side of Arthur’s bed for a moment before straightening up, and Arthur’s heart squeezes painfully at the signs of Gaius’s old age.

Arthur clears his throat.

“Thank you, Doctor,” he says and salutes him. “Oh, and, let the records show I’m fully immunized.”

“Still a child.” Gaius smiles and shakes his head. “I will see you tomorrow.”

Leon and Gwaine nod to Gaius as they pass each other; Gaius pats Leon’s shoulder while Gwaine charges straight to the bathroom with, “Gonna faken burst!”

Arthur rolls his eyes.

“There’s one in your apartment, you ass!” he yells.

“It’s currently too far away.” Gwaine’s voice is muffled through the door. He adds something else, but it’s drowned by the unmistakable sounds of the cracked open seat and Gwaine’s taking a power-spray piss.

“Bet he won’t put it down,” Arthur grumbles and hears Gwaine laugh. “You didn’t even wash your hands,” he scolds him when Gwaine comes out.

“Oh, don’t be such a wife,” Gwaine retorts and Leon snorts. “Here,” he says and throws something to Arthur; it lands on his chest. A paper bag.

“What’s this?” Arthur asks and sits up.

“Condoms and lube.”

Arthur laughs. “Wanker.”

“No, that’s you. I’m trying to change that,” Gwaine says, plopping himself on the chair, and stretching and propping his feet on Arthur’s bed.

“Get lost, Gwaine.” Leon pushes Gwaine’s feet off and sits down on that spot. “Open it,” he tells Arthur, nodding at the bag.

Arthur does, and he can’t believe his eyes.

“What the hell, Leon?” he asks, quickly closing the bag. “Why isn’t it back with the Department and why did you bring it here?”

Leon and Gwaine glance at each other. Neither of them answer.

Arthur doesn’t like this. “Well?” he prompts. He doesn’t like how heavy the bag feels, sitting on his thigh. Crumpled, with a grease stain on the side -- and unless it’s his imagination playing tricks, it’s also getting warm. He can feel it even through the layers separating it from his skin.

“Why do I have a feeling I'm not going to like what I’m about to hear?”

“Because you won’t?” Gwaine offers.

Arthur sighs. “What did you do?”

“Oh no, man, the question is what did _you_ do?”

Arthur blows an exasperated breath. “Must you try my patience, Gwaine?”

Gwaine jumps up from his chair. “Me? Your patience? You asshole!” His eyes flash with a familiar spark. “You coded, you miserable prick!”

His friend's anger hits Arthur in the chest, making him gasp, and retreats immediately, but Gwaine doesn't look sorry. He looks like someone who's been worried -- the shadows under his eyes too dark, his normally styled hair disheveled.

"You were there?" Arthur asks.

"Yes! Leon called for backup."

Arthur pulls up higher on his bed and sits straighter, ignoring the slight whooshing in his ears. “Okay, now please. Straight to the point. What happened?”

“They couldn’t stabilize you,” Leon says and pushes the chair for Gwaine to sit back down; Gwaine does so with a huff. “You kept coding, and your face....” Leon runs his hand through his hair. “It kept changing color -- from sickly blue to a glowing pink. It was... it was....”

“Fucked up,” supplies Gwaine. “From an asphyxiation victim to a blushing bride. Whatever the trick was, I don’t ever want to see that shit again, okay?”

It’s not easy to bewilder or disgust Gwaine; the guy once ate a quart of mayo on a bet and hadn’t turned as green as he’s gone just now.

Arthur sighs. “I was using a barely tested magical artifact.” He points to the bag. “What did you expect? We knew the risk.”

“True, but--”

Arthur doesn’t let Leon finish. “And I’m here, aren’t I? I am fine, Leon. And you’re both avoiding my question.”

“We figured out it was the artifact pulling you back. Bypassing the second level, for sure -- I went back in and there was no sign of you. And it's still unclear -- how you made it back inside in the first place. It couldn't be just the artifact.” Leon says.

It isn't clear to Arthur either, but ever since he woke up here he hasn't had a single moment to himself, so maybe it'll come back to him later, when he gets a chance to think about it.

He shakes his head. "I just remember going after the suspect."

“Yes, to level four! Without it being officiated? I couldn’t believe it when you went for it.”

“I had to get the guy.” Arthur shrugs.

“No you didn’t! And not without a partner!”

Leon raising his voice is a rare occurrence; today is one of those days, and Arthur knows it’s better to allow him to let it out. Besides, Leon’s right -- Arthur screwed up. He got too cocky and chased magic beyond his limits. The Department will close their eyes to this fact -- and that boy sorcerer, being a fugitive now, would be a fool to talk -- all they care about is keeping things status quo.

But the truth is... The truth is, Arthur knows that he’d do it again. Magic’s like a drug -- sneaky, consuming, mindfucking. Addictive. He wishes he could have it. Not borrowed through an artifact for his assignments -- but his own. Like Merlin's. Maybe if he did...

“Arthur, we almost lost you.” There’s still irritation in Leon’s words, but there’s concern, too. “They couldn’t get the damn choker off you,” he says quietly. “Every time they tried, it kept... I don’t know... digging itself into you more, then letting go a bit. It was playing with you.”

“Kinky.” Arthur chuckles, and both Leon and Gwaine glare at him.

“Not fucking funny, you bastard,” Gwaine mutters.

“Oh come on, it’s kind of funny.”

Maybe not, but Arthur is at loss what else to say or do. “So what happened? How did you get it off me?”

“We didn’t. You were pretty much a goner.”

In an instant, both Gwaine and Leon look uncomfortable and avoid Arthur's eyes.

“So, are you going to tell me the rest, or do I have to pull rank on you again?”

Leon sighs. “You were paid a visit, Arthur,” he says.

“By who?”

Merlin?

The question is on the tip of his tongue, but he doesn’t ask out loud; he’s too proud for that.

“A guy popped out of the realm. He touched you and the choker fell off.”

Arthur picks up the bag from his lap and checks inside again. Nothing’s changed since he looked at it last. The artifact -- the brass pendant on the brown leather strip -- is still inside and fully intact.

“Okay,” he says, “Did he say who he was?”

“No,” Leon says.

“How did he look?”

“I don’t know.” Leon shrugs. “Tall, middle age--”

“Handsome,” Gwaine supplies.

“Wouldn’t you notice,” Leon mutters and Gwaine grins. “But he’s powerful, Arthur.” Leon turns to Arthur again. “I say it not because he clipped the choker off you by a flick of a finger.”

“You scanned him?”

“I tried. No penetration.”

Arthur looks up. “What do you mean?”

“No readable levels. None. He’s probably not registered with the Department.”

“Unregistered user?” Arthur frowns. “Exercising strong magic in the middle of the day?”

“Exactly. And no one comes running.”

“Well, you could.”

Leon averts his eyes.

"You let him go." Arthur gets that there could be too big of a commotion if Leon tried. "Did you report him?"

Leon presses his lips into a thin line.

“Leon, there were witnesses... Why?” Arthur asks.

Leon snaps his eyes to him. “He saved your life. He said it was not the last time you’d be in danger and you must keep the artifact, never lose it."

Arthur laughs. "Yeah, right. Like I’d ever pocket Department property.”

Leon doesn't smile back. Arthur studies his expression.

"The artifact didn’t come from the Department, did it?” he asks. “The bag it was in was a prop so I don’t question it.”

Leon gives Arthur an appreciative gaze. “Has never been in the database. No traces outside of the Department, either.”

The silence that falls between them is uneasy, and Arthur knows what his two friends are thinking. “An unregistered sorcerer of unknown power wanted me to keep an unregistered artifact of unknown strength.”

Leon’s face turns grim. “Pretty much.”

“Did he say anything else?”

“Nope. Opened realm and was gone.”

“I don’t think you should keep the artifact,” Gwaine says.

Arthur nods. “We’ll see.”

 

 

 

xxxxx

Uther sends a car to pick up Arthur the next morning, which he informs him about through a proxy -- Catrina.

“Your father was very worried,” she tells Arthur as soon as he answers the call.

“As always, he has a funny way of showing it,” he replies. He’s being an ass and he knows it, but better this than whining. He’s not a five-year-old kid anymore to want his daddy when things get rough.

“He did send a car,” Catrina tells him sternly, “and clean clothes.”

Arthur glances at the stand next to his bed and sees a large paper bag. With his phone pressed between his shoulder and ear, he pulls the bag to his lap and looks inside.

“Wow," he says, checking the labels. “Everything in correct sizes, and no expenses spared. That’s impressive for my father. Hang on, underwear? Catrina, seriously?”

“Don’t be rude, Arthur,” she responds in a dry tone. “It doesn’t suit you.”

“You could’ve just gone to my apartment. I have clean clothes there.”

“You think it wasn’t the first thing I did?” Arthur hears an unmistakable soft sizzling sound and a long exhale. Catrina never could beat the nasty habit. “I couldn’t get in.”

“And what’s the matter, Catrina, forgot the code?” He snorts.

“You wish. But no. You changed it, and don’t act like you don’t know,” she says. "The door didn't unlock."

Arthur stops pulling on his socks and straightens up so fast, he gets dizzy. "I didn't change the code.”

Catrina hisses and mutters something he doesn’t hear.

“Catrina?” Arthur drops the phone on the bed and presses the speaker button. He dresses within record time.

There are sounds of her walking and opening the door before she responds, “Arthur, change of plans. You are not going home. I'm getting you to your father's house until we make sure yours is safe.”

“Whoa, whoa, hold it! First of all, my father's house is the last place I want to be right now. Second, I am not letting your seek-and-destroy monkeys anywhere near my place. Not going to happen."

“Arthur--”

“Catrina, no. Go ahead and inform my father. We both know you would, even if I begged otherwise, but I’ll deal with it on my own. I’m not going to be turned away from my property by some hypothetical danger that might be just a faulty code.”

“Arthur, don’t you think it would be more prudent--”

“Tell my father thanks for the clothes.” Arthur ends the call.

Catrina and Uther had never made it official -- that Arthur knows of -- but they have been together for ages. She’s never tried to replace Arthur’s mother, nor has she ever been an overly nurturing type. But she’s always cared, and Arthur appreciates it, but not today. It’s enough that he’d already gone through extensive lecturing by Gaius’s vicious eyebrow, survived being surveyed by a nurse with the exit questions -- including such invasive ones as how long ago he had his last intercourse, which had zero relevance to his current medical case -- and skipped the ridiculous breakfast offered by this fine establishment. He wanted an omelette made with real eggs, thank you very fucking much.

He puts on his jacket and pockets his phone; something crunches under his knuckles and he pulls it out - the bag with an artifact. Excellent, he has to deal with that as well.

 

 

 

xxxxx

Despite it being late morning and a lot of people inside of the hospital, there’s only one car parked by the entrance of the building -- an inconspicuous-looking sedan. Later, even when he tried, Arthur couldn’t recall the make or the color of it.

“Mister Pendragon.” He’s greeted by a young man as soon as he walks out. The guy’s in black pants, a buttoned-up grey wool waistcoat, and scruffy brown shoes. He’s short and thin, and ginger, although most of his hair is hidden under the black cap. He opens the back door of the sedan and smiles -- genuinely, boyishly -- and gestures for Arthur to get in.

“What’s this? ” Arthur asks. “My father employs child labor now? Do you even have a license, Oliver Twist?”

"Uh." The young man gives him an innocent stare. “Not for cars, no.”

“Huh?” Arthur says and climbs into the back of the car, carefully but firmly supported by the elbow, although just a moment ago he definitely didn’t feel like getting in.

“What Julius means is, he won’t be driving you,” a man sitting in the driver’s seat says. “I will.”

The man is not lying, since Julius is not even trying to get into the car. He closes the door and stays behind as the man switches gear and slowly takes off.

Arthur glances around the car. There’s nothing unusual about it, nothing catches the eye. Black leather, tinted windows, folded newspaper tucked under the front seat. A little too warm for his liking, but not too bad, although if they keep crawling at fifteen miles an hour, it might get uncomfortable soon.

He shifts his gaze back to the man behind the wheel. Broad shoulders, brown coat, brown beanie tight on his head. Arthur can’t see the length, or the color of his hair, but the dark brows and faint stubble gives him a hint. His tanned hand switches gears often; the fingers have unusually enlarged knuckles and groomed nails longer than one would expect from a person driving for a living. Arthur guesses he’s in his early fifties. The way he handles the car -- slowly, carefully, following every sign, turning the signal on and off with a deliberate movement of his hand -- doesn’t instill great confidence in his driving skills.

“Oookay,” Arthur says, having a bad feeling about all this, “this feels only slightly weird.”

“Depends how you look at it,” the driver responds.

Arthur bristles. “If this is my father making a point, it won’t work. I am going home. I’m sure you know the address.”

“I know the address,” the driver agrees, looking straight ahead. Arthur sees his cheek move, possibly into a smile, but he can’t tell for sure.

They drive in complete silence, and he’s lulled by the slow, smooth ride, but after a while he notes that something is missing and realizes that it’s because the radio isn’t on. He thinks it’s odd that there’s not even a talk show muttering in the background. The radio is off and so is the air conditioner, it seems, because it’s getting warmer in the car and it’s increasingly unpleasant; Arthur parts his jacket and unbuttons the top of his shirt. He lowers his head and rubs the side of his face, feeling like this ride is never going to end.

“Had a rough night?” the driver asks.

Arthur raises his head. “What gave me away? Oh, right.” He doesn’t bother toning down the acid in his voice. “You just picked me up from a hospital.”

The man chuckles. “True.” He honks at someone on the road, swearing under his breath. "Damn texters. What has the world turned into?”

Arthur considers it a rhetorical question, and it’s not like he’s never texted while driving. Guilty as... well he has never been charged, though he certainly knows better than to break the law when he’s the one who’s so diligent in enforcing it.

The man honks again, startling Arthur. “Young people these days,” he says, “they have neither patience nor common sense. I wouldn’t trust half of them with operating anything that has moving parts and requires lubing.”

“Lubing isn’t that hard,” Arthur mumbles before realizing the pun, and coughs to cover his embarrassment.

The man doesn’t comment, but a quiet snort coming from him is answer enough.

“Oh, for god’s sake,” Arthur mutters and turns to look out the window. He hums in surprise, finding they’re three blocks away from his place.

“You didn’t believe I was taking you home, did you?” the man asks.

“I did not,” Arthur admits reluctantly.

“And why not?”

“Call it a gut feeling.”

“Yes,” the man says slowly, “always trust that. Always.”

He adjusts the rear view mirror, his sharp eyes meet Arthur’s, and Arthur notes the pupils are blown dark with a thin yellow rim around them. And Arthur gets it -- this person has absolutely nothing to do with his father or the Department, and if this car has been sent to deliver him safely home, it was certainly not ordered by Cathrina. For starters, beanies are not in the Department’s dress code.

Arthur shifts and slips his hand into his pocket for his ever-present disabler. Damn paper bag with the artifact makes a noise in his other pocket as he moves, probably giving his intention away.

“So I was right, then?” he asks, a bit too loudly.

“It depends,” the man says, showing no signs he’s aware Arthur’s about to make a move on him. “Right about what?”

“You are not one of my father’s.”

The man laughs. “Ah, no. Iron-clad leashes never excited me.”

Arthur understands the reference and it makes him cringe. He can’t blame this guy for not hiding his disdain for Uther’s tactics to control magic, but sometimes the force is necessary. For the sake of Balance. Someone has to do the dirty job of removing the threats to it.

“So, you work independently,” Arthur says, shifting again, and places both hands on his lap. He’s ready.

“Was that a question?” The man turns his head slowly, gazing at Arthur for a long moment. Arthur tells himself he’s not creeped out by how the guy didn’t just glance at him from the corner of his eye, but twisted his head to a degree humanly impossible to look him straight in the face.

“If you want it to be.” Arthur sits up straight.

“I don’t think this is what you want to know.”

“No?”

The driver yawns. “No.”

“All right, I’ll ask then. Which side of magic are you on? Sir.”

The man laughs. “Which side are you?” At least he doesn’t deny he has it.

“I don't have--” But before Arthur can finish, they stop abruptly and his head dips forward, barely avoiding hitting the headrest of the front seat. “What the hell do you--”

“Julius--”

“What?”

The man is out of the car in a blink of an eye, abandoning it about fifty feet away from Arthur’s building. He skates over the front of the car in a smooth, seamless motion so uncharacteristic of his age, it renders Arthur speechless, and sprints ahead. Arthur follows him. The man moves fast, almost as if gliding above the ground, the fronts of his coat flapping in the air behind him.

As they approach Arthur’s building, he scans the area, not finding anything or anyone looking suspicious -- but then again, it’s hard to tell, considering the speed they’re moving at.

The man halts at the entrance and raises his hand for Arthur to stop. Arthur does so immediately. He’s out of breath; the man is not. Somehow, Arthur finds himself looking for a justification of his being out of shape. Recent near-death experience could be a good excuse, of course; otherwise, he’s always been fit. And he doesn’t have magic, unlike the other party.

Meanwhile, the said “other party” is standing stock-still, cocking his head and boring his eyes into the front door of the building. Arthur almost expects it to open on a whim, but it doesn’t.

“We have to go in,” the man says. “Now.”

“Just for the record, you weren’t invited,” Arthur replies and moves to open the door.

“Wait,” the man says. “I assume the necklace is still with you?” he asks.

“You mean the artifact?”

The man grimaces. “It’s a conductor of magical power, young man, nothing artificial about it.”

Arthur nods and reaches into his pocket to retrieve the bag with the necklace.

“Very well. No time to put it on now, just keep direct skin contact with the pendant. Do not lose it, boy.”

Arthur has already heard this somewhere before about the pendant. He narrows his eyes. "Who sent you here?”

“Necklace, or you’re out,” is the only response he gets.

No one likes ultimatums, and Arthur’s no exception, but when the choices he’s presented with are that categorical, he knows to act quickly. He pulls the choker out of the bag, wraps it around his hand, and closes his fingers around the pendant.

“All right, then.”

The man grabs Arthur painfully by the arm, and they’re on level two before Arthur opens his mouth to object. He recognizes it immediately by the sticky slime under his feet and the stilted air. They are at the elevator, the doors covered in slime and are yellow from rust.

“Fucking gross.” Arthur grimaces. “I’m moving out.”

He reaches to press the button, but is stopped again by the man's, “No time for that.”

The next moment, they are on the seventh floor, facing the door to Arthur’s apartment, and Arthur’s having difficulty breathing. A switch goes off in his head and he recalls with clarity his pursuit of Mordred: running after him through the streets of the city, diving after him into the realm while holding to Leon's shoulder, speeding ahead after Mordred along the corridors of the abandoned building, capturing him, and the boy's plea: “Please let me go.” He remembers going through a sharp-edged veil, being pulled, thrown on the ground, and blinded by the bright light... He recalls the suffocation and the confusion, the piercing pain in his chest, and Merlin. Sweet, sad, distant Merlin, not his anymore.

This is level four again, where Arthur almost died. Fucking hell. He doesn’t know if he can handle it again so soon. Physically and mentally.

And then he notices that the door to the apartment is slightly ajar. Without thinking, he reaches for it.

“Don’t touch it.” The words he hears sound more like an incessant, dry click-chirp-click, but in his head he recognizes the meaning behind it. “There might be a problem.”

It’s the man talking, and Arthur turns to look at him. What he sees makes him gasp for air again. The man’s head is twice its normal size, his jaw extended forward, his lips stretched thin to the sides of his face and nose flattened, and his skin... What the hell? It shimmers with vaguely resembling something that looks oddly like scales -- almost translucent but still obviously there -- golden-brown and brilliant in the light of day. More clicking comes out of the man's mouth as he towers over Arthur, although his back is now unnaturally curved, and Arthur just stares at him, speechless.

This man isn’t human... He’s a...

“Lizard,” he whispers, not meaning to do so out loud.

The creature makes an indignant sound and lets out a hot puff of smoke right into Arthur’s face. He wonders if his eyebrows have survived. Or his sanity.

“Fuck,” Arthur says, and makes this embarrassing flailing gesture by flapping his arms .against his thighs. “Are you a dragon?”

He might have had an even stronger reaction, but the level four magic reminds him of its presence at this same unpleasant moment by robbing him of breath and zapping him of the ability to think clearly anymore. It drains him of energy quickly; he feels it in the million needle-points poking his skin at once. His eyes are itching and his mouth goes dry.

The creature cocks his head to the side and blinks -- a thin, almost transparent, film flips over his yellow eyes several times like a shutterfly, and it’s downright creepy.

“Any chance I’m dreaming?” Arthur asks, just in case.

There goes another huff of light smoke again, but not directly at Arthur this time. “Of course I'm a dragon. And they say ignorance is bliss,” the creature click-chirps, the words echoing loudly in Arthur’s head, making him cringe, “in your case not something you can afford.”

“What are you on about?”

Arthur’s ready to tell this oversized lizard to shove his threats where the sun doesn’t shine -- at least for people, that is -- but the dragon seems to be done with the conversation. He presses his hand against Arthur’s chest, his fingers -- all four... fucking hell... long, clawed fingers -- and pushes Arthur out of the way.

“You have so much to learn.”

He walks into Arthur’s apartment through the door without opening it, and even though Arthur should be used to this trick by now, this time it startles him. Maybe it’s because a dragon just walked into his home, without asking for permission. They clearly don't teach them manners in school.

“Learn about what?” Arthur asks, following him inside -- the normal way.

He immediately stumbles over something soft but large and falls over, landing on his hands and knees. A black cap lying on the floor right in front of him isn’t his, but looks vaguely familiar.

“What?” Arthur turns around, still on all fours. “Oh, God.”

The ginger, Julius -- that boy who greeted him at the car earlier -- is sprawled flat on his back, his pale green eyes are wide open and staring blankly at the ceiling.

A chill runs down Arthur’s spine. “Oh no,” he says, reaching for the boy.

“Don’t touch him.” The dragon flicks his wrist, and it’s as if Arthur has just hit an invisible wall -- he can’t come closer.

The dragon leans over and presses the back of his two fingers to the side of the young man’s neck. A few moments later he clicks, shaking his head, “We’re too late.”

Arthur shifts up onto his knees and slacks heavily back on his heels.

He can’t tear his eyes away from Julius, and he already knows he’ll be plagued with many nightmares, haunted by the void expression on the young man’s face and the freakishly blue hue of his slacked mouth.

“I don’t understand. What happened?”

The dragon doesn’t answer, and Arthur looks up to find him in human form again. Just like that -- the realm was closed and Arthur didn’t even notice. How is it even possible? He pushes himself to stand up. His feet are wobbly, his vision is a bit blurry, and it feels as if his skin is chafted and too sensitive all over, but compared to the last time, he’s vertical and has a pulse, and that’s good enough news. The artifact is still wrapped tightly around his fingers, but the disabler is long lost somewhere, and Arthur can’t bring himself to worry about that. So he'll have to report it; who cares.

He tugs the artifact off his hand, struggling to untangle it, and it goes loose only after Arthur swears to burn the fucking thing if it doesn’t cooperate right fucking now.

“I’m calling the Department,” he mumbles and reaches into his pocket.

“Don’t even think about it,” the dra... the man says, still leaning over the body. He pats over it thoroughly, looking for god knows what and shakes his head -- his search comes up empty. “Careless, stupid boy,” he says morosely, and draws something in the air with his knuckled finger. Faint sparks go off in a sign Arthur doesn’t know.

And then Arthur remembers -- the code. Catrina couldn’t get in. It’s not a coincidence. Of course, none of it is, and his blood runs cold in his veins. That could’ve been Catrina here, or him -- lying in a heap on the floor. Dead.

Arthur assesses the person before him again, with a different eye now, compiling what he knows already: the man is a poor driver, doesn’t work for the Department, has shapeshifting abilities, and therefore strong magic. And he’s definitely not registered on either side of the fence, since he’s strongly against dealing with authorities. But he does know something about Arthur and it brought him here, and if Arthur is not dead yet, that’s not what he’s after. As good as this news might be, Arthur has zero inclination to trust this person -- less than zero.

“Who are you?” Arthur asks, feeling a new dose of adrenaline kicking in at the thought of direct danger, his heart speeding up. “Who sent you?” He still tries to sound firm and authoritative, but he’s drained and the shock of the last two days is catching up with him.  
  
“Calm down. Breathe." The man passes his hand over Julius’ body and it vanishes slowly, and then it’s gone as if nothing ever happened. The only reminder left that the person ever existed is a crumpled black cap dropped under Arthur’s feet. He straightens up. “You humans are too fragile for your own good.”

“What do you want from me?” Arthur asks again, which still comes out weak, but not as shaky.

“My name is Kilgharrah, and you have nothing I want,” the man responds calmly, his tone full of disdain. “I am here following orders.”

“Ah, not so independent, then,” Arthur says, taking a few deep breaths and feeling marginally better with each one. “Let me guess. Your boss -- he is human.”

“Try less sexist,” Kilgharrah suggests.

“So, your boss is a woman?”

“My boss is a dragonlord. Contrary to common belief, gender is not a factor in our special bond.”

“Right,” Arthur says as if he gets it, although this entire situation can easily rank as one of the most confusing ones in his life. “Because you are a dragon.”

“Your level of intelligence is impressive, Arthur Pendragon.”

Arthur flinches at the way his name twists on the man’s tongue, and he can’t help but wonder. His name... and there's a dragon...

The confusion is probably evident on his face because Kilgharrah laughs. “Don’t flatter yourself, young man. Even mixed with ancient magic, your blood will never be as thick as mine.”

“Then what do you want with me?”

“We are not related, but we are connected.”

“How?”

“You’ll learn soon enough, if you choose so.”

Arthur tries to not roll his eyes; there are still things, important things, he wants to know, so he exercises what’s left of his patience the best he can. “And that boy, what was he doing in my apartment?” he asks. And then, softer, because he cares, because a person -- a young man barely of age -- has just died, “What happened here?”

“He...” Kilgharrah hesitates, but Arthur stares at him expectantly, willing to wait as long as it takes for an answer, so he continues, reluctantly, “He had a gift of diversion. His task was to allow me to pick you up discreetly. And drop you off the same way. Julius was also to place a safekeep on you and your home. For your protection. Alas, he failed at the second part.”

“And there was a serious reason for that.” Arthur doesn’t ask; that some unknown party is interested in him to the point of risking their men’s lives is enough confirmation that something’s gone pear-shaped somewhere and placed him in the center of things.

Somehow he isn’t flattered by the idea.

“Yes,” Kilgharrah says, the smooth expression on his face contradicting with his words, “there still is.”

“Why should I trust you?”

“You shouldn’t.”

“This is ridiculous,” Arthur mutters.

Kilgharrah smiles. “And you haven’t shown me the door yet.”

Arthur has an impulse to do just that, but doesn’t, as it dawns on him that somewhere along the lines this whole situation became some sort of a test. That he’s being studied and his reactions measured, and it’s in his best interest to pass. One thing he sincerely hopes for is that Julius's death wasn’t a part of it.

So Arthur forgoes such dramatic gestures as kicking a dragon out of his apartment and says, “I want to know the cause of this boy’s death.”

Kilgharrah, who has been watching Arthur’s every expression with sharp interest, smiles minutely. “It was a spell -- a tracking ward, to be precise, installed here at your door. It was going to trigger as soon as you’d crossed it and have you leaving a trail after yourself everywhere you went.”

“Dark magic?”

“Yes, in its pure, primal form.”

Arthur suppresses a shiver. “Why am I targeted?”

“You work for the Department that controls magic, your father is Uther Pendragon, and you’re asking me why?”

“I am doing my job. Everything I do is within the Convention code. I’m protected by law,” Arthur says with conviction.

Kilgharrah laughs. “How naive you are, still.”

The irritation flares in Arthur’s chest, and it’s so strong, he needs a moment to swallow it down and to blink away white spots from his vision.

“So you’re saying someone wants me dead.”

“As the end game, possibly, but not today.”

“But that boy--”

“Underestimated his opponent. Tried to dismantle a strong spell by placing his own on top of it. He miscalculated.”

“And then what?”

“The magic reacted, creating a powerful force. It pulled him into the level way beyond his capabilities, and wiped him out instantly.”

Arthur tries to take heart in the fact that at least Julius didn’t suffer, but... “He died because of me,” he says, his heart clenching at the truth of it.

“He died because of his own stupidity,” Kilgharrah deadpans. “He didn’t think.”

Arthur shudders. “Then what, someone wants to keep a leash on me? Who?”

“And here’s your homework, Arthur Pendragon.”

The smirk stretched on Kilgharrah’s face is so smug, Arthur suspects he’s just been handed a task he’s not expected to succeed in. He’s expected to try and fail. But what Arthur comes to realize is that maybe it's not the result but the process of discovery itself is what's important. He’s being offered a unique chance here -- a possibility to step into the realm deeper than he's ever been before. Not just to touch and taste, but maybe even to use magic, and he’d be a fool to refuse it.

“Homework, all right,” Arthur agrees. “And who are you in my textbook? Dragons have never been on the side of good. Historically, I mean. I didn’t even know you still existed.”

“Old Magic has many dimensions, young man,” Kilgharrah responds, drawing a handkerchief from his pocket and slowly wiping his hands off something only he can see. “Just because I answer to one human, doesn’t mean I have to pick a side. I have a right to exist the way only I am.”

“That also makes you illegal,” Arthur points out. Homework or not, if Kilgharrah isn’t registered, Arthur must report this man... this creature. The dragon can’t be oblivious to that.

Kilgharrah cocks his head to the side and smiles. “If you think I care about your human laws, you’re sorely mistaken.”

Arthur narrows his eyes at Kilgharrah, thinking.

“And your boss, who does he answer to?”

Kilgharrah’s booming laugh is almost deafening. “Do you really think there’s a lot of rank above me?”

“I don’t think I give a flying donkey about where you are in the food chain. I want to know who your boss is.”

“I could fry you to a crisp, boy.” The dragon huffs another hot breath at Arthur, which isn’t very pleasing to his olfactory senses.

“But that’s not why you’re here,” Arthur hedges, trying to not show how uncomfortable, if not scared, the dragon makes him. “You’re here to bring me a message, aren’t you?”

“I am no one's secretary!” Kilgharrah thunders.

“Look.” Arthur takes a step forward.“I don’t care if you being an asshole is a part of your genetic code or it’s just your communication skills that suck on a severe level, but you either tell me what’s going on here or I’m calling the Department and they’ll take your sparkly ass and throw it into the dungeons. I assure you, those are not a myth.”

Kilgharrah doesn’t answer right away. He studies Arthur, his brow arched and his yellow-rimmed eyes unblinking.

“Threatening any parts of my anatomy won’t get you far, especially since you obviously have a hard time keeping your own safe. But I suppose you’re right; I haven’t been exactly forthcoming with you.”

This makes Arthur want to laugh. “Not exactly forthcoming” is the understatement of the year.

Kilgharrah continues, “So, here’s my response to you, young Pendragon -- you must find the connection between you and the person who wanted to place a tracker on you. Find the connection in time, and you won’t need to worry about the world’s Balance for a long time to come. It will come to harmony again, and your future will be clear. But remember this -- no matter what, you mustn’t let your pride lead your actions.”

Arthur frowns. “I don’t...” Then shakes his head, and tries again. “Connection? But how do I--”

“You’ve got what you need already,” the dragon interrupts. “The rest is up to you. And I shall see you again soon.”

Kilgharrah walks out without sparing Arthur another glance, while Arthur stares and stares into space, even after Kilgharrah’s long gone.

 

 

 

xxxxx


	4. Chapter 4

 

 

xxxxx

Being with Merlin was easy.

During the week, Uther demanded Arthur stay home alone and study. Arthur was _seventeen_ , for fuck’s sake, but unless he wanted to be kicked out of the house, he had no choice but to obey. To that, Arthur and Merlin had found an easy solution -- whenever they could they had used a cam. They had watched each other study, eat, and do laundry, since they both hated it and doing chores together was more bearable.

Sometimes, when separation was too much, and they were too horny, one went to see the other late at night. They touched and kissed and explored, their bodies still growing and awkward, their hands uncertain and mouths greedy but getting better together with each time. They went to school next day with their mouths bruised and eyes bleary, but it was worth it. Every minute together was worth the little sleep and reprimands from the teachers for badly done homework or sluggish afternoon football practices.

Unfortunately, Uther wasn't the only one having a hard time accepting what Arthur cared for the most; there was also the matter of Gwaine. The closer Arthur and Merlin became, the more Gwaine refused to acknowledge Merlin’s status in Arthur’s life. Most of the time he treated Merlin like an ass. Like a complete and utter donkey ass.

"I don't get him," Arthur complained to Leon. "Didn't he try to pick Merlin up back then? Merlin has done nothing to make Gwaine dislike him since. Now we barely hang out together anymore. What the hell?"

"You really are dim, my friend." Leon patted Arthur's head and Arthur slapped him off with, "Am not."

Leon sighed. "He never liked Merlin. Most likely never would. I doubt Gwaine would approve of anyone you ever date."

Arthur scoffed. "I already have one overbearing father. I don't need another to validate my choices." Arthur didn't say out loud how much the idea of dating anyone but Merlin did not appeal to him.

"Let me make it plain for you. Gwaine believes he called dibs on you first. He thinks he has the right to judge."

"I'm not a thing!" Arthur says. "He can't just..."

"No, he can't. That's why he went after Merlin."

"Leon, it doesn't make any sense."

"He wanted to make you jealous, you dummy."

"Bullshit. I'd never be jealous of Gwaine, and he knows it."

"Not Gwaine." Leon rolled his eyes. "You really don't get it?"

Arthur just looked at him, frowning.

"Okay, here. For how long did you sulk around before talking to Merlin?"

"I didn't sulk," Arthur said quickly.

"Right, then. How long?"

"I dunno. A month?"

"Try seven. You seriously broke all records."

"So?"

"And how long did it take for you to speak to Merlin after Gwaine made a move on him?"

Technically, it wasn't Arthur who'd spoken first, Merlin had, Arthur had just found the courage to speak back, but whatever Gwaine's devious scheme was to get Arthur and Merlin together, it worked.

"So Gwaine didn't try to get into Merlin's pants?" he asked.

"He'd never do such thing to you. Hell, Arthur, was that what you thought?"

Arthur averted his eyes and mumbled, "Never mind."

"Wanna pretend this conversation never happened?"

"Yeah, whatever. Like it's the only thing we never talk about."

"Come on." Leon ran uncomfortable hand through his hair. "We are the same. Nothing's changed."

Everything. _Everything_ had changed for Arthur since he'd learned his friends had magic, but he'd never admit it.

"Well, at least Merlin never hides things from me," Arthur muttered.

The flash of unease in Leon's eyes was so fleeting, Arthur missed it completely.

That Merlin had magic, too, Arthur learned in a rather peculiar and maybe the best way.

Their first time was awkward and if Arthur were to admit it, on the side of painful. There wasn't enough lube, then there was too much of it, and strangely enough, slippery didn't mean better. Arthur was embarrassed and aroused in equal measures, and Merlin, his beautiful, sweet, hot boyfriend, turned him over to his belly, planting kisses into his skin along his spine, up, and up and up. Then whispered into his ear that he wanted to try something. "Can I? Arthur, please. I want..."

Arthur nodded, all pain forgotten, grinding into Merlin's erection, moaning that, _Yes, anything. Merlin, yes._

Merlin pulled Arthur up a little and slid a pillow under his hips, and Arthur was instantly relieved and confused. Because it was better, more comfortable that way -- to push himself against Merlin, to let him slip in between his thighs, but his skin chafed against the pillow, and that was nice, so nice. And how was he supposed to do both at once?

"Merlin, _God_."

Merlin laughed softly into his neck. "That works, doesn't it?"

"And you know this how?" Arthur was unable to rein in the jealousy in his voice.

Merlin kissed him. Turned Arthur's head slightly to reach his mouth better and slipped his tongue inside, brushing it first tentatively against Arthur's, and when Arthur moaned, swirled it around and round, sucked on it until Arthur couldn't take it anymore. So he reached his hand to push his fingers into Merlin's hair and tugged on it -- just like Merlin liked it. Merlin broke the kiss with a gasp.

"Arthur, you’re... the only... my only--"

Arthur shook his head. The words became unnecessary because he felt it right then-- there was, would be, no one else.

"I know how," Merlin said, slipping his fingers behind Arthur, "because sometimes I do _this_ when I miss you." He carefully pushed a finger inside Arthur; it went in easily since he'd already been somewhat prepared. "While also doing _this_." He slid his hand between Arthur and the pillow, wrapping his fingers around Arthur.  
Arthur felt something wild let loose inside him, something so immense and consuming, time stopped. It went quiet, very quiet between his ears, and then all sounds, all smells, all colors bloomed around him. With regret, he realized that it would be over too soon; he was about to climax way before Merlin, although his ultimate fantasy -- for months now -- had been to see Merlin's face while Merlin watched him come.

"Not yet." Merlin's hand squeezed Arthur's base to make the tide of pleasure abate, and it did a little. "Wait."

"Merlin," Arthur begged, "More. And _talk_ , please."

Merlin understood. "Two, yes?" he asked, before pushing another finger inside Arthur.

Arthur could do nothing but moan "yes".

Merlin started talking again into his shoulder. "I think about it. All the time. While fucking myself. How much you'd like it. Me, inside you. You do like it, yes?"

"Yes... _More_."

"And then I do _this_ ," he twisted his hand, pushing Arthur's skin and curling the fingers of his other hand inside him, brushing over the spot so sensitive, Arthur was bursting out of his skin in pleasure.

"Merlin, ah... that's..."

"Tell me." Merlin's body was pressing to Arthur's side, his hands pulling the most intense orgasm Arthur had ever experienced in his life.

"Perf-- Oh god, yes..."

And Arthur was a goner. He came and came, with Merlin's soft, worshipping mouth on him, and demanding, clever fingers inside.

Arthur, even when blissed out of his mind, limbs slow and mind hazy, was still not entirely satisfied. He waited until Merlin’s fingers slipped out of him and rocked himself against Merlin again.

"My turn," he said, finding Merlin's soft lips, and ground into him, over and over, until Merlin spilled between Arthur’s thighs.

They lay sated and lazy, in Merlin's narrow bed, fingers linked together, shoulders, hips, ankles pressed, and Arthur asked, although he already knew the answer, probably from the moment he met this amazing, beautiful boy, "Merlin, are you magic?"

Merlin gulped and nodded. "Please don't push me away."

 

  

  


xxxxx

Arthur snaps out of it when his phone starts ringing and keeps ringing after he refuses to pick it up.

Catrina calls, and later texts, berating him for leaving the hospital on his own.

_Your father is worried._

Arthur snorts.

Leon leaves several voice messages. Then starts texting, too.

_Arthur goddammit. It’s important._

_More important than meeting a dragon?_ Arthur wonders half-wittedly to himself. He thinks about when his life was normal. Easy. He traces it back, and back, and back. Was there ever the time he had it uncomplicated?

Before magic, probably. Although being his father’s son alone was never an easy task. Arthur tries to imagine for a moment his life without magic, his years without ever knowing Merlin, and the months following Merlin’s leaving. Would he choose to not ever know about the realm? Not being a leader of his team to go at the first call for help?

He can’t. However heartsick being without Merlin makes him, however many times he endures the exhaustion and the pain of chasing criminals in the realm, he wouldn’t change any of it for another life. This is his. This is who he is.

Arthur gets up from the sofa in the living room, puts his shoes on, grabs the umbrella -- because with his luck it’s going to rain -- and leaves his apartment.

“So?” he asks the minute he enters his quarters back at the Municipalis.

Leon’s sitting at his desk, staring at the monitor. When he looks at Arthur, the expression on his face is so grim, Arthur’s thinking the world is about to crumble.

“What’s the matter?” he asks.

“I need you to see something.” Leon nods at the screen. “I found this.”

Arthur stops himself from offering a snarky retort, as it doesn’t seem like Leon is up for it today.

He leans closer to the monitor and starts reading.

  

**To:** The Department of Supernatural Affairs  
 **From:** Ganeida Myrddyn                                
 **Request:** Permission for a sacrificial ritual     
 **Candidate:** Merlin Emrys                               
 **Granted (Y/N):** Y                                           
 **Granted on:** May 26th, 2013                          
 **Granted By:** U. Pendragon, The Head of DSA

The rest of the text turns into a blur as Arthur tries not to lose it in front of Leon. He breathes in and out, gripping hard at the edge of the desk, and telling himself that there must be some sort of a mistake. Merlin cannot be given to someone, like a goat for a ritual. Merlin is a powerful sorcerer. If anything, he’s Camelot’s treasure in the magic community. Who would ever in their right mind give such ridiculous permission as to sacrifice Merlin?

He knows who.

So, the question that really matters is why.

“Ganeida Myrddyn?” he asks, his voice hoarse.

“Dark Magic. Not baselined as of two years ago, and no updates in her records since then. It's like she vanished up until this request.”

“Young?”

“Twenty-three next month.”

“Not baselined at twenty-one?”

Arthur isn’t exactly surprised. At this point he’s seen a lot, learned a lot about magic. It’s possible for a magic user to still be growing into their powers when they reach their twenties. If this girl hasn’t had proper grooming by the Department, if she didn’t learn about her powers early on, it’s possible she still has a long way to go with her magic at almost twenty-three. But what is this two-year gap in her record? Why hasn't the Department been monitoring her? And what is she capable of now?

“There's more, Arthur,” Leon says, and Arthur doesn’t like his tone or the steel in his eyes.

“What is it?”

“Last time she was tested two years ago, she was realm nine. _Nine_ , Arthur.”

Arthur starts rubbing the back of his neck, feeling the heavy pressure of his blood elevating, pulsing there. “Merlin’s still higher.”

Leon gazes at Arthur with a look of such immense pity, Arthur suppresses the urge to yell at him. Instead, he asks, calmly, knowing, _knowing_ already he’s not going to like what he is going to hear, sensing that the news might shatter him completely. “What, Leon?”

“Merlin is no longer in the database of magic users, and we don't know since when."

“No.” Arthur drops his hand and presses it against the mark on his arm. “That doesn't mean anything. He probably rebelled -- you know how he was, he and Morgana both hated the way magic was treated. Uther’s laws suffocated him. I don’t know.” Arthur’s babbling. “She hasn't gotten him yet. He’s still alive. I know it. I would’ve known if something bad had happened to him.”

“You would’ve known if he were _alive_ or if something had _happened_ to him?” Leon asks.

Okay, okay, Arthur understands that there’s a difference -- significant difference -- and he tries to think back. He tries so hard to stay leveled and rational, and not lose his wits. Because it’s about Merlin. His Merlin. He doesn’t care if he left him, or that it’s been over a year and he still feels as raw and sick as the day when Merlin kissed his mouth, pressed their foreheads together, held the back of Arthur’s neck firmly, so he couldn’t object, and whispered, “I’m sorry, Arthur, I’m doing this for you.”

Arthur refuses to think how he blanked out after that and lost an entire day of his memories simply because Merlin left him. It was still painful -- to this day -- waking up every morning without Merlin’s bright eyes staring at him with adoration. No one ever smiled at him like only Merlin could -- like Arthur was the sun, and Merlin was the moon, orbiting around. Arthur always thought it was the opposite. And he was fine with that. He was happy, knowing that it was Merlin’s destiny to shine and Arthur's to be in his shadow.

It was because of Merlin that Arthur applied for a job with the Municipalis. He asked only for one thing -- to let him work for the Department. He wanted good magic to prosper and evil to wilt. He missed magic, and he missed Merlin, and the Department was his only way to survive the void. The Department, with all its cruel power and unbalanced justice, was still a far better choice than spending the rest of his years on the periphery of life and having nothing but memories of how good it had felt to be touched by magic.

Arthur brings his arm closer to his eyes, swiping his fingers over the mark, watching it fade a little under the pressure and then turning up pink and prominent again.

“He’s alive,” is all Arthur can say.

Leon nods, his expression showing no relief at Arthur’s words, and Arthur has to agree that yes, sometimes just being alive is not enough. Arthur should know.

“We have to contact him, Arthur.”

If Leon had made this suggestion just a few days ago, Arthur would’ve stopped speaking to him for a long time. Possibly forever. He would have said then that Merlin had made his choice, and that it’s been ages already, they’ve both moved on. Merlin doesn’t need him.

He could’ve said a lot of things, and none of it is relevant any longer. Leon is right; he remembers the dragon’s, “No matter what, you mustn’t let your pride lead your actions.”

Pride? What pride? Arthur has none left.

“Yes, could you look him up?” Arthur asks, almost breathlessly. The possibility of seeing Merlin after a long time is dizzying, and Arthur orders his heart to stop being such a traitor.

He buttons his shirt up and feels for the security badge in his pocket. “I’m going to speak with my father.”

Leon doesn’t answer. He gets up from his desk and gives Arthur a hug that makes him feel like his bones are about to give.

“Be brave, partner,” Leon tells him.

 

  

  


xxxxx

Even though Catrina is sitting down at her desk, she’s still as impenetrable as a citadel.

“He’s busy, Arthur, he’s in budget negotiations and it’s not going well,” she says as soon as he steps out of the elevator. “Come back tomorrow.”

“I don’t care, Catrina. Tell him I want to see him now.”

Catrina looks at him. “Does this have anything to do with the security code to your apartment? Is there really an issue?"

"What?" Arthur blinks. "Ah...." Should he tell her? "No, false alarm. But... You shouldn't go there for a while, just in case."

Catrina smiles and shakes her head. "As you wish. Then there's nothing else that could be as important as what he’s doing right now. I wouldn’t dare. ”

“There is, something important to me,” he insists.

“You can’t be serious.” She stares at him for a long moment, then sighs. “What is it?”

Arthur bites his lip and mutters, “It’s Merlin. There’s a problem.”

Catrina takes off her black-rimmed glasses. Without them, her face looks softer; a lot less like an iron lady and a lot more like the woman he remembers as a boy -- young and in love with his father who never deserved it -- and at that moment he prays that Catrina knows nothing about the request for Merlin’s life to be sacrificed to some cruel, useless gods. If she does and chose to keep quiet, he doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to forgive her for that. There’s a certain double standard, he would agree. It was his father who knew what Merlin meant to Arthur and yet granted the permission, not Catrina. But Arthur has already learned to expect the worst from Uther, and Catrina -- however loyal to her life partner -- isn’t him.

She places her glasses on the table and brushes her fingers under her eyes. Checking the fingertips for smudges, she sighs. “I’m a mess today. Just look at that.”

“Catrina.”

“Yes, Arthur, I heard you. There’s a problem with your ex, and you want to see your father now.” She raises her deep brown, tired eyes. “And there’s absolutely no way I can let you in. So, how about I pour us some fresh tea, because God, you and I could use something hot and sweet right now. And then you’ll tell me what’s going on. I do hold certain power here, too, you know.” She smiles.

Can he trust her? And trust her with what? What he just learned is absurd, makes absolutely no sense. Merlin dropped out of the database? Outlawed and being given away? Is that even within Convention law?

Yes, generally speaking, everyone’s life is a commodity, but not Merlin’s. Never Merlin’s. It’s definitely a mistake. He just has to...

“Arthur,” Catrina reminds him about her presence. “Here’s your cup. Please sit.”

Arthur accepts his cup and sits down, all on autopilot. The chair creaks under him and he looks around. What is he even doing here? Uther won’t change his mind, whatever the reason was to begin with. Catrina is too loyal to Uther to go against his word. She won’t help. And help how? By overruling the boss?

He gives Catrina a long, sad look and places his tea down. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you. Now that I think about it, it’s really not such a big deal.”

Catrina’s hurt expression doesn’t change his mind. He smiles apologetically. “You know me. I’ve always panicked because of the smallest things where it comes to Merlin, and sometimes I forget that he...” He pauses. “It’s all going to be fine. He’s probably fine.”

“Arthur...”

“I’m sorry, really, just... I need to go, yeah?”

Catrina doesn’t answer for some time, just studies Arthur’s face and then sighs. “I suppose you don’t have a message for your father, then? I could, you know...”

Arthur’s already at the door; he turns to her and grins. “Actually, I do have a message for him. Tell him that he’s an asshole and when I do see him next time, I’m going to punch him in the face.”

Catrina gasps, but Arthur doesn’t wait for her to respond. His mind is already on something else.

 

  

  


xxxxx

“I take it the conversation didn’t go well?” Leon asks when Arthur walks back to the office and straight to his desk.

“There was no conversation,” Arthur says grimly. “Did you discover Merlin’s whereabouts?”

Leon shakes his head, scratching his beard. “Proves to be more difficult than we thought.”

“What do you mean?”

“His last registered address is your apartment.”

Arthur doesn’t expect it to affect him so much. Mostly, he’s angry. “Well, we all know how much that’s true.”

Leon places his hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “We’ll find him. Unless he relocated to the Moon -- even then.”

“Maybe he should. The farther from the Ganieda witch the better. Either way, he’s not stupid, registered user or not. I can’t imagine the reason he’d just turn himself in to Ganeida’s hands.”

“Arthur,” Leon says carefully. “I’m afraid it’s more complicated than that.”

“Go on.” Arthur sits down and slumps against the table, supporting himself on his elbows. “Tell me."

“The principle of a sacrifice is to take, yeah? The request to perform the ritual is never taken lightly, and there has to be a legitimate reason for permitting it. Ganieda, a dark magic witch, and definitely strong, receives permission to release and suck up the power from a user of good magic... It can mean only one thing.”

God, Arthur doesn’t want to hear it. He can’t. He won’t accept it. He prolongs the moment, sitting still with his eyes closed and the world tuned out; Leon’s presence tuned out. Of course it can’t last forever.

“Yeah?” he asks, his voice giving out.

“There has to be an immense threat to the Balance. There’s no other explanation.”

“Fuck the Balance,” he snaps.

“Arthur--”

“No, stop talking. Find Merlin. Find him, Leon. And I’ll hunt down this... woman. Leave her to me.”

Arthur ignores Leon’s heavy sighs and his deliberately loud clacking on the keyboard, and spends some time staring at the screen, figuring out what to look for, where to even start.

“All right.” He logs into the system with his credentials and waits while the wheel spins, loading the search program.

He enters “Ganeida Myrddyn” into the search line, presses “go”.

The program doesn’t think for too long, spitting the picture and the information within a few seconds. The face of a young woman stares at him from the screen, light-brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, deep blue eyes, pale skin, full lips. And the expression on her face so dark, he’d swear it seemed to singe the mark on his forehead through the screen.

“Whoa,” Arthur murmurs, “Who crawled up her ass and died?”

Leon gets up and walks to his desk. “Ah, the requestor.”

“Bitch. What, level nine wasn’t enough for her?” Arthur pushes the keyboard away and slumps on his chair. “What the fuck, Leon? How greedy can one get? And...”

He stops and leans forward, reading the text. “This is interesting...”

“What?” Leon mimics Arthur, getting closer to the screen. “What are we looking at?”

“Her birthday.”

Leon looks at Arthur without comprehension on his face. “What about it?”

Arthur backs out a few steps in the program into the main database and types Merlin’s name. When his information comes up on the screen, Arthur tries to ignore the painful feeling that doesn’t seem to ever uncoil in his chest anymore. He misses Merlin’s face. That stupid plump mouth and the mop of unruly black hair. He really, really did a number on Arthur, and no matter what Arthur has tried, nothing has been helping. A bond is a bond is a bond. He really is doomed.

Arthur closes his eyes for a moment, taking a steadying breath, then opens them again. He taps the screen for Leon. “Merlin’s birthday.”

“Yeah? And?”

Arthur brings up Ganeida’s data again, and points.

“I see. Well...” Leon shrugs. “...not sure how it’s relevant. Most likely just a coincidence.”

Arthur snorts. “Really? You still believe in such a thing?”

“What do you want me to say? That I think you’re borderline paranoid about everything Merlin?”

“Fuck you! He’s been marked. He’s going to be slaughtered. And you’re telling me I’m paranoid?”

“I guess you have a point.”

“I guess I have a lead.”

“What, the same birthday?” Leon asks.

“It’s more than we had before.”

“What are you going to do with it? We don’t even know who her parents are.”

“Yet,” Arthur replies and sets the program for advanced search.

 

 

  


xxxxx

“Are you still going to tell me it’s all in my head?” Arthur asks, turning the screen to Leon with another empty search result window. “I can find more on my neighbor's eight-year old kid here,” he says, letting out an exasperated breath.

“To be fair, that boy is a sheer terror,” reasons Leon. “He belongs in juvie.”

Arthur doesn’t laugh.

He’s spent the last hour looking at every possible angle concerning Ganeida Myrddyn, and found almost nothing. She was linked to someone named Alice, whose last name is nowhere to be found and there are thousands of people under that first name, but from what Arthur gathered, she was Ganeida’s more or less mentor. She applied to university, but there’s no indication she actually attended one. There were the dates of her taking the training at the Department, and then -- a gaping hole of zero activity for two years, and then a little blurb about her request for a permission for a human sacrifice ritual.

Approved by Uther Pendragon.

Arthur gnashes his teeth. What did Merlin ever do to him but love his son? So fine, he also broke his son’s heart, but it sure didn’t warrant premature painful death. Even his father couldn't be that cruel.

Arthur digs and digs with zero success until he types “druid” next to her name. He’s already so used to seeing the standard “Found 0 references” response that when the new window pops up telling him that his access has been denied, Arthur almost falls out of his chair.

“Dammit!” He jumps up, both annoyed he cannot access what he needs, and glad it means he’s onto something real this time.

Leon smiles. “How stupid do they think we are?” he asks.

“Yeah.” Arthur sits down again. “So, a connection with druids, obviously,” he says, to which Leon says, nodding, “Obviously.”

“All right. All right." Arthur thinks frantically. "Main locations for druids?”

“Yeah, you can look them up,“ Leon says.

Arthur adjusts his chair, settling down, and pulls the keyboard closer -- the hunt is on, so he might as well get comfortable -- and gets to work. After extracting the list, he starts entering the girl’s name with every known location that’s ever been associated with druids. When Arthur enters "Wrecsam", his access is denied again.

“Ah-ha! So, connection to them and to this place.” Arthur drums his fingers on the table. “Leon, do you think I could--”

“No, I actually think you should stop,” Leon says and comes up to sit at the edge of Arthur’s table, half-blocking his screen. “Arthur, look at me.”

“Why? Get off!”

“Arthur, just stop and think about it. The second you got your ‘access denied’...”

Arthur stops typing, cranes his neck at the screen, and shifts his unfocused gaze on Leon. It only takes him a moment to get what Leon is saying.

“Fuck,” he mutters.

Leon nods. “My point. Stop.”

“But you know what, why should I? My bastard father most likely knows I’d be looking anyway,” Arthur spits out.

“Because that could mean one of two things,” Leon says calmly.

“Yeah? Why don’t you tell me?” Arthur snaps, although he already knows what it is.

“It’s classified for a reason -- and you are it. It’s either so you don’t find it--”

Arthur’s mouth slides into a scowl. “Or so I find this,” he gestures at the screen, “and believe I’m onto good stuff....”

“Exactly.”

“Fuck.” Arthur gets up and starts pacing. “This means I might be nowhere closer now than I was two hours ago.”

“I’m sorry."

Arthur shakes his head. “Yeah. Fuck... Unless...” He freezes in the middle of the room with a sharp intake of breath and the expression on his face Leon knows very, very well. It’s a promise of something so bad, it’s going to be fucking brilliant. “There’s something I have, and I doubt Uther's people know about it, thanks to you.”

Leon gives him a puzzled look, and without another word, Arthur pulls out the choker and lets it dangle and sway off his finger.

“With this on me, I’m like a smoke signal. Can’t miss me.”

“And why do you think they’d approach you?”

“Trust me: one drastic move on my part, and they’ll be all over me.”

 

 

  


xxxxx

A long time ago, Merlin taught Arthur a trick -- or showed him one, since according to every realm convention, Arthur wasn’t trainable when it came to magic. Merlin, on the other hand, was brilliant with magic. He could grab the edges of realm with his bare hands, and stretch it, bend it, send it skittering away -- only to have it skip right back, like an eager puppy with a fetched ball. And it never, never refused to act on Merlin’s whim. No one else could play with magic like Merlin and get away with it.

Merlin’s trick was genius -- he had created what he called _subrealm_ \-- a level so fine and thin, it was almost imperceptible, delicate like a veil. It was his own unique creation, and it was a gift to Arthur, only theirs to know about.

“Want to try it?” Merlin asked, excited, the first time he’d made it appear under his hands -- nothing but a tremble of air.

That was how Arthur saw it -- as a delicate shimmer, flickering in the air. “ _Mer_ lin,” he drawled, trying not to show how stunned he was by actually seeing magic, something he’d been told would never be possible.

“Come closer, Arthur,” Merlin whispered. “It’s okay. Want to touch it?”

“It’s not dangerous?” Arthur asked, taking an apprehensive step forward.

“Do you consider _me_ dangerous?” Merlin asked, gazing at Arthur, his eyes beaming gold and bright, drawing him in.

“Never.” Arthur made another step.

“This is me, Arthur,” Merlin said, smiling encouragingly.

“I know.”

“No, look. This...” He slowly raised his hand, palm facing Arthur, and bounced it back and forth slightly; the air between them responded instantly by pulsing to the rhythm of his hand. It turned into a jittering, shimmering glow around Merlin, and Arthur recalled the first time he had seen Merlin, just like this: tall, brilliant, magical. “This is me, Arthur, and I’d never hurt you. I’d sooner die.”

“ _Merlin_.” Arthur closed the last distance between them, cutting through the tremble of the magic separating them and feeling it instantly recognize and accept him. It enveloped him, seeping through his skin and becoming the air in his lungs. He took Merlin's hand, twining their fingers together. “I would never let that happen."

 

  

  


xxxxx

Arthur wishes he knew where to start.

Besides the artifact, he has no other leads. Checking for the originator of the artifact through the Department would only raise more suspicion, and how would he explain having one without having it turned in? And even if he tried, what would he be talking about? A missing sorcerer who happened to be his ex? Messing up with Mordred, whom he’s yet to write report about? Meeting the dragon? Technically, he could try to trace the young man who died in his apartment (and God, did that really happen?), which feels like it happened ages ago, but at this point it would mean that the Department would know what he’s thinking and predict his moves. He doesn’t trust the Department to protect him anymore.

There’s only one option he can think of.

He dials the number.

Gwaine picks up right away. “Leon already told me.”

“Traitor.”

“No. A friend. And I don’t care what you say, I’m going with you.”

“Going where?" Arthur's trying for smooth, but doesn't sound successful even to his own ears. "For all you know I’m in our quarters, sitting at my desk and filing some paperwork that involves your ass.”

“Hmmm, interesting, and how are you describing it?”

“Your ass? I found a few words for it. ‘Sorry’, ‘entitled’, ‘useless’.”

“Add ‘I’d tap dat’, and I’ll forgive you everything.”

Arthur laughs. “Don’t you wish.”

“Yeah...”

Arthur chooses to ignore the wistfulness in Gwaine’s voice.

“Anyway,” Gwaine says, sighing, “You’re having me on. You are not at your desk.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I’m there and you’re not.”

“Gwaine, I swear to god, if you even think about opening that bottom drawer...”

Gwaine laughs. “The only bottom I'm interested in is currently attached to you. But nice diversion tactic, darling. Any other time I'd already be digging through your desk, but not today.”

“When did you get so clever?”

“I hang out with the right people.”

“The only person you hang out with is me. And Leon.”

“My point.”

“Stop flattering me. I'm not taking you with me.”

“Then why did you call?”

“I knew Leon already tattled on me, and you’d be trailing me if I didn't forbid you.”

“I’d be trailing you anyway.”

Gwaine’s voice sounds suspiciously close. Arthur turns around and groans.

“Fuck, Gwaine, stop following me like a puppy.”

Gwaine’s magic nudges Arthur in the chest for a brief moment, an unhappy prickle at the offensive remark. Then his mouth sets into a firm line.

“Wherever you’re going, you are not going alone. I’m coming with you."

Arthur sighs. “So, you know about Merlin.”

Gwaine nods. “I got bits from Leon.”

Arthur shoots him an incredulous glance. “But you never liked Merlin.”

“And you still love him,” Gwaine says simply. His eyes are round, warm, honest, and Arthur doesn’t know how he deserves the deep affection he reads there. He doesn’t know why it could never be this simple. He could’ve been happy with Gwaine, if he gave it chance.

But that’s the thing. They are good, so good as best friends, and absolutely brilliant as partners, just not in the way Gwaine wants.

“Stop it,” Gwaine murmurs. “Just stop it. I’m fine. Talking about entitled asses. Yours has ‘presumptuous’ written all over it.” He rolls his shoulders and gives Arthur a cocky smile.

Arthur jabs a finger into his forehead. “I am still your superior,” he says in a voice a little too loud. “While this might be a personal matter to me, it’s a job for you. Got it?”

Gwaine rolls his eyes. “Whatever, boss. Where are we going?”

“Morgana,” Arthur says. “Morgana is my only hope.”

Morgana is his cousin and a seer. She’s also the only dark magic user Arthur ever turns to for an advice. As a person with strong convictions, she’s been vocal about eradicating myths based on prejudice against people with magic, and had, on many occasions, called for every sorcerer, dark magic or not, to take responsibility for the future of the realm.

Sometimes, Arthur envies her steel will and fierce determination as she’s done something he never could -- she stood up to Uther - and just for that, she has all Arthur’s respect and trust.

 

 

  


xxxxx

It’s evening already, and Morgana hasn’t been answering his calls. Arthur attempts to get rid of Gwaine and go to her place alone, but Gwaine’s impossible to shake, which annoys Arthur to no end. At some point, he’s so exhausted he stops responding to whatever Gwaine throws his way: air kisses, murmurs of endearment, promises to be on his best behavior at Morgana’s. As if Gwaine’s even capable of such thing. When he finally shuts up and the press of his magic stops crowding every corner of Arthur’s mind and every crevice of his body, Arthur finds himself on the tube, zonking out on Gwaine’s shoulder. He doesn’t have the strength to move, both thankful for the long ride and hating how static the time feels ever since he found out about Merlin being in danger.

He can’t hide his disappointment, if not despair, when Morgana doesn’t answer the door.

“She probably doesn’t want to deal with you and your deplorable manners. No one does,” Arthur says, feeling vengeful.

“Eh.” Gwaine shrugs. “She’s missing out.”

“I just bet she feels that way,” Arthur answers through his teeth, texting Morgana, yet again, that he needs to see her.

“Well, princess, I don’t think there’s much to do here today. Why don’t we get you home, make you a nice, relaxing bath, give you a good rub off--”

“Gwaine, get the fuck out of my face.” Arthur’s not even trying to hide how much he's tired of him right now. “This is… Fuck.” He pushes his hand through his hair. “I can’t… Just please get away from me for a while, yeah?”

Gwaine attempts a light laugh, but it comes out weak, fake, but this time Arthur doesn’t care if his friend’s hurt. He needs to think, he needs to figure things out, make decisions and act on them. Find Merlin, find Ganeida, and there’s that unfinished business with Mordred being on the loose. If he weren’t so wiped out, he'd probably try to pick his words more carefully. Not tonight, and not when Gwaine's practically suffocating him with his presence.

“I’m going home,” he snaps. “Don’t follow me. I mean it.”

Gwaine’s shoulders slump inwards. “Nothing stupid, Arthur,” he murmurs.

Arthur just waves him off, yawning. “Nothing beyond your great idea of a bath.”

Gwaine opens his mouth, and Arthur stops him with, “Fuck off,” knowing well what was coming. No one's rubbing off anything. “Go home.”

“We’ll find him,” Gwaine says, as Arthur fetches himself a cab with a tired flick of a hand.

Arthur hopes a few hours of sleep won’t hurt that promise. He just needs a little rest so he can function again.

 

  


xxxxx

Not a lot of people disturb Arthur in the middle of the night without a good reason, especially by ringing at his door at nearly one o’clock in the morning.

"Arthur, it's me." Morgana's quiet, tired voice through the intercom wakes him up better than the shrill sound of the buzzer a few minutes ago. In the dark, her face is stark-white and her eyes are black, staring at him through the screen. Arthur presses the button to let her in.

It takes her only a few moments to make it to his door -- it's a lot faster through the realm. She hisses stepping over the threshold.

"What is this?" she asks.

Arthur scrubs his face while trying to sort his thoughts into some semblance of order.

"What happened here? There’s a fresh mark of..." Morgana's face pales more as she grabs his arm. "Arthur, did someone die here? Recently? A sorcerer?"

Arthur can never hide the truth from her, not because he's afraid of her sharp tongue and quick reactions to magic, but because it's impossible to keep anything from her. She rarely sees the past, but she constantly sees the future, which is always linked to the past, and Morgana never fails to connect the dots.

Arthur nods. "There was a serious problem here this morning."

Morgana crouches down, her eyes glow gold with specs of red in them. He sees her slip into the shadow of the realm, in and out so quickly he can hardly tell she's been away. "The person who died. He broke a serious ward, and its signature is very familiar." Morgana gets a faraway look on her face, then shakes her head. "Yeah, makes sense now."

"What makes sense?" Arthur asks, eyeing the spot where Julius’ body had been. The memory of yesterday brings the churning in his stomach to the next level of unease. Maybe he does need to take a break from this place.

"I think you need to find another place to stay."

When someone else says it, it doesn't sound like such a good idea anymore.

"I am perfectly fine here."

"Arthur, I don't think you understand--"

"I am not going anywhere unless I’m inclined to do so myself."

Morgana begs, "Temporarily?"

Arthur grimaces at the idea of going to the hotel.

"I would've invited you to my place..."

"No thanks," Arthur says quickly. "The last thing I want is for us to be thought as a couple."

"Some would find it flattering."

"As they should. But you know..."

"I know. You'd rather be alone..."

"General idea, yes." And if Merlin ever... But no... Ridiculous. He isn't waiting for Merlin anymore. That chapter is closed, and Arthur simply likes his independence too much to share his space with anyone else. "I'll call a few hotels."

Maybe.

"You go, get me some tea," Morgana says. "And I'll..." She gestures at the floor by the door. "I'll just see if the traces lead anywhere. Then we'll talk."

"You mean you didn't wake me up at midnight to ask how my fish was doing?"

"You don't have a fish."

"So, not about a fish, then." Arthur tilts his head to the side.

"Stop being so clever, Arthur Pendragon. You were the one looking for me and I know why. Don't pretend you don't need me."

Arthur's barely done pouring water into a kettle when she's back.

"Why don't you tell me what happened here?" she asks, sitting down on the edge of the chair.

"Me? Didn't you find anything?"

She shakes her head slowly, biting her lip. "Nothing beyond my initial impression. It’s surprisingly clean."

"But you can still see..."

"The mark of death is permanent and especially strong when it happens in a forceful manner. In this case, the person didn’t just die, he was annihilated."

"He had not a scratch on him from what I could tell."

"Not his body, Arthur -- his magic. His essence was ripped out of him. Not even ripped -- it was blasted into less than dust. Vaporized." She shudders.

After a long silence, Arthur asks, "Didn't you say you were going to tell me something?"

"I think it's all related. Actually, I'm pretty sure it's all related. I just need more information to piece it together, and I’d appreciate your version of events."

Arthur starts conveying to her the most edited version of his last few days, excluding names and some other details that might be classified, like existence of a dragon. Kilgharrah doesn’t fit even into the most classified part of the Department’s database, and as much as he trusts Morgana, something stops him from going all the way.

"Someone orchestrated a dangerous ritual to frame you." Morgana says it as if it’s not even a question, and Arthur is not the one to argue with her this time.

"At least. To kill me, most likely. And when they failed, they decided to plant a GPS on me. That failed, too. Or maybe they meant it to..." He glances at the door to the hallway, rubbing his neck.

"It wasn't your fault," she says.

"You don't know that," he responds, then looks at her. "Wait, do you? What's happening, ‘Gana?"

"The person who did it was one of ours." She is uncomfortable, fidgeting.

Arthur looks at her without blinking for a moment.

She gets up and walks to open the cupboard and Arthur grabs her hand. “Who was it?”

“Can we please take it to the living room?” she asks, gently pulling her hand out of his painful hold. “It’s late, I’m cold. I’d like some hot tea, and a blanket would be nice. This will take a while.”

Arthur doesn’t blame her. Ever since he had destroyed everything in the kitchen after Merlin dumped him, Arthur hasn’t spent a lot of effort on making it cozy again. A Minimal set of dishes, new table, one chair for Arthur. There are no pictures of Italy and full-bellied cooks in white hats and aprons hanging on the walls anymore. Arthur doesn’t bother with the decor.

He nods, gets up, and leads Morgana to the living room. She lights up the fireplace with a flick of a brow -- a gesture so familiar, Arthur closes his eyes, overwhelmed by the nostalgic feeling the association has brought, and by the smell of resin and burning wood. There’s a reason he doesn’t like spending time here; the kitchen is the place that brings fewest reminders.

“So...” She settles on the sofa.

“You forgot your tea,” Arthur comments.

A steaming cup appears on the table. “Do you want me to use a coaster?” she asks politely.

“Fuck the coaster, Morgana, talk.”

Arthur can’t sit down, can’t wait.

“You used to be a lot more caring about those things.” She wraps her fingers around the cup.

Arthur glares wordlessly at her.

"You still have it on you, don't you? Morgana asks. “And it’s almost out of power, isn’t? I can recharge it for you.”

"Not sure what you mean," Arthur lies.

She narrows her eyes. "Playing games with me, Pendragon?"

Arthur bristles. "Okay, enough! What do you know? And how much of it is Leon's pillow-talking?" He watches with small pleasure how the tables turn, and Morgana's face washes into a slight shade of pink. Bingo. "Does he tell you everything? How does it even work between you two?"

"That's private."

"Not if the member of my team, who is a guard of good magic, is in a relationship with a dark magic user."

Morgana hisses. "Who are you to judge?"

Arthur raises his hands in a surrendering motion. "Fine. I agree. It’s not my right to do so, but you've both been hiding this."

"That's exactly why, you asshole!"

"Well, thanks for the vote of trust on behalf of you both, then."

"Arthur--"

"No, let me lay it out for you. Because these things are not designed to mesh together, forgive me for expressing a concern about you two, and forgive me for being wary about the fact that less than twelve hours after learning some classified information available only to those with the highest security clearance at the Department, I have you in my apartment already snooping around. Understand, that for thinking only with his dick, Leon can be discharged, stripped of magic, and spend the rest of his days under the Department's watch doing menial jobs like working toll booths at the Camelot bridge.”

Morgana wants to say something, but Artur cuts her off. “To top it all off, I’d like to remind you that Leon's boss is the very person you not long ago cursed into a bumbling drooling idiot for twenty-four hours and his secretary into a rot-eating troll."

"It's not classified information to me when I'm the one who provided it to the member of the Department in the first place!” Morgana cries. “I saw it and told Leon to search for details in the database, you ungrateful miserable ass!"

Arthur balks. "You told him about..."

"Merlin and Ganeida, yes, I saw it happen. Why are you so surprised?"

"Please-- Did you-- Is he?" Arthur can't seem to find words or catch his breath.

"No, Arthur, not yet, but you need to hurry. Do you understand now why I’m here at this hour? And to answer your earlier question: it's Ganeida's work all over your apartment. The ward that killed the sorcerer was created by her, although there's something off about it..."

Arthur sits next to Morgana and rubs his forehead. He looks at her. "What does it mean?"

Morgana quiets for a beat.

"I don't think it’s her tracking ward that killed the guy. It was a harmless device until someone else enhanced it into a weapon. Ganeida’s always avoided any active use of magic. I’m going to go as far as to say she never wanted to have magic. She hated what it did to her mind and to her body. I know how she used to be."

Arthur stumbles to his feet so fast, he hits his shin against the table and doesn't care. "You know Ganeida? How? Where is she now? Help me find her!"

"I do. And bad, bad idea, cousin."

"I need her to..."

Morgana takes Arthur’s hand in hers and squeezes his fingers, nudging him to sit back down. When he does, she says, “Think twice. Mean no harm if you can help it. Understand that someone is pulling her strings. They want some sort of an altercation. And they want it to escalate.”

“Morgana,” Arthur groans. “It’s...” He pulls his hand from hers.

“I know. It’s Merlin.” She nods.

“Yes. And I can’t-- I have to stop this. Do you know where Merlin is?"

She shakes her head. "No. You weren't the only one he left. None of us know."

Arthur did not expect that answer, and whatever dark and urgent that has been eating at him for the past twenty-four hours, now grows into something so big and vicious he clutches at his chest to contain it before he starts screaming.

"What was your vision about?” he asks, unable to make it sound louder than a cracking whisper.

Morgana looks somewhere behind Arthur’s shoulder.

“Please.” Arthur touches her arms.

“There are some things that are not meant to be stopped,” she says.

“No--”

Morgana looks at him sharply. “Assume that Ganeida is not acting alone, of that I'm positive.”

“Where is she?”

“I don’t know.”

“But--”

“We attended the same program together, years ago. She had this completely raw, untamed power, and every time she was told to use it, she was uncertain what to do with it. Every time it was a disaster. She couldn’t stay in the same level for long, tended to skip the first one all together, even when required to follow the order. She once disappeared in the realm without a trace. Alvarr, our levels travel professor, went as far as he could, searching for her. He returned with frostbite all over his face and neck, and his fingers were black. He came back empty-handed. Arthur, none of our teachers were below level seven. Can you imagine where she ended up if he couldn’t find her?”

Arthur can. He’s scared to think that that’s where Mordred pulled him into, but yes, not only can he imagine it, he can also remember vividly the empty feeling of wanting to give up.

“She was never baselined,” he supplies.

“I’m not surprised. I don’t think she was interested in getting anywhere with her power. It was as if she constantly tried to cap it within herself, and the more she did it, the more difficult it was for her to control it. She was bursting at the seams with it. And if the teachers couldn’t keep up with her, baselining her was not possible.”

“Were you friends?” Arthur asks, craving more information.

Morgana shakes her head. “Not really. Sometimes I think she was scared of her own shadow, let alone getting close to anyone else; and she wasn’t with the program through the end.”

Arthur remembers whatever meager information he had found about her the previous day. “What happened?”

“There was an accident.” Morgana places her still almost full cup on the table, and curls up on the sofa with her legs under her. “We were working on a spell, and at first, she refused to learn it. Every time it was her turn to repeat it, she stammered, messed up the words. One of the boys in the class started mocking her. Everyone laughed. Even the professor... I know... it wasn’t nice. It was fucking unprofessional of him. Next thing we know the boy is struck down, and bleeding out of his mouth. Turned out, he had a chunk of his tongue missing. I have never seen a more terrified person in my life.”

“Well, wouldn’t you be? A tongue? Sheesh,” Arthur says.

“No, Arthur, not the boy, he passed out from shock. I’m talking about Ganeida. I will never forget the stricken expression on her face. She kept repeating that she didn’t mean it.”

“Fuck. And then what?”

“She was removed from the program.”

“No. That’s...”

“I know, it sounds wrong. The whole purpose of the program is to teach users to control the power we have, not to punish us when we make mistakes.”

“God.” Arthur isn’t supposed to feel sympathy for the girl, but he can’t help it. “And you don’t know where she went after?”

“No... I think she was two years older than me, so we only had a couple of classes together. Maybe under different circumstances we could’ve become friends, I don’t know.” Morgana gets that faraway look again, sighs. “We weren’t close, but I understood her. Like her, I was a late bloomer. It’s not easy to come around when you’re almost an adult. I can’t tell you how many times I cursed the years I wasted in ignorance.”

Her smile’s frayed, and Arthur’s mind wanders years back: how easy it seemed for Gwaine to fall into magic, how hard Morgana took the news that her clairvoyance was not something she could be rid of. He also wonders about the level of Uther’s involvement in Ganeida’s disappearance.

Morgana seems to follow his line of thought. “I shouldn’t hold any of it against Pendragons.”

Arthur’s voice breaks when he says, “But you do.”

She shrugs. “But I do. My life could’ve been very different if I learned about the realm being real a lot sooner than I did. I’ve forgiven you, Arthur. Not him.”

Arthur opens his mouth, but Morgana doesn’t let him speak. “Don’t you dare defend him. He’s done terrible things to the magic community.”

“I wasn’t thinking of that. But you know he’s only doing his job.”

“Vile, despicable--”

“All of that. And I wish it was different.”

“Don’t wish -- do something.” Morgana’s eyes are glowing brilliant gold, but not with magic -- they reflect the bright light from the fireplace and the one burning within her soul.

“I am, Gana.”

“Not enough.”

Arthur hangs his head. “I am trying. Do you think Uther had anything to do with expelling her from the program?”

“I don’t know. She was just gone. Maybe she wasn’t removed. Maybe she just wasn’t comfortable participating in the program. But it was obvious she needed guidance. Besides, the decision wouldn’t have been only up to Uther. If there’s one thing I agree with you where it comes to your father and magic, it’s that he’s just a mediator. But the fact that he’s the one who for decades has been suppressing the movement to stop making magic a secret and make us full members of society instead of supernatural freaks, is not something I can overlook. And he’s brainwashed you for years.”

“Has not,” Arthur argues feebly.

Morgana scoffs. “Very much so.”

“All my friends have magic.”

“Yes, including Merlin. How did that feel? To have your father hate your relationship and refuse to acknowledge it for years?”

“I hated it.” Arthur looks at his hands. This is another reason why he can’t blame Merlin for leaving. Uther was unbearable. The occasions when he spent time in Arthur and Merlin’s company, he acted superior and condescending. Merlin wasn’t worthy of licking Uther’s shoe, and by extension Uther treated Arthur like an incapable child, as if Merlin were a phase and Uther was indulging Arthur until he came to his senses.

“I have things I can never forgive him for, either,” he says, quieter.

“Yet, you’re part of the very thing that makes it all wrong,” Morgana accuses.

Arthur raises his head. “I know that not having magic makes me more like him and not at all like you, although, God knows, I wish it were the other way around. But don’t you dare tell me I’m against you. If you still believe that, we have nothing to talk about here.”

“No, Arthur, no.” Morgana leans forward and places a soothing hand on his. “I don’t mean it like that.”

Arthur heaves a long sigh. “It’s all messed up; it’s all tilted on its axis and spinning in the wrong direction; I don’t know what to believe anymore. How is it that you,” he looks at her apologetically for what he’s about to say, “a girl with dark magic, are helping me save someone who some day might be your demise?”

“Because it’s the right thing to do,” Morgana responds without hesitation. “Because that’s what true Balance is all about. And I’m not afraid of what the future holds for me, although you might be right about it.”

Arthur searches Morgana’s face; for a hesitation, a doubt, some confirmation that this talk is hypothetical. He wants to know that Morgana's gift of magic hasn’t been so cruel to her as to reveal her own future death.

She probably reads his mind. “No, I don’t know that for sure. What I do know is that Ganeida deserves to be considered humanely in all this. Sheath your sword, cousin. Use your brain.”

“For that I need more information. How do I find Ganeida? What do I do to stop her?”

Morgana rises to her feet, and Arthur follows suit. “It’s not her you need to stop. Haven’t you been listening? We don’t know the amount of power she holds. We don’t know if there’s anyone on this earth today who’s stronger than Ganeida. You can’t stop her. What you can do is stop the ritual. Think, Arthur; do your research. Beat the system. We all know you’re magic at that.”

Arthur feels his chest expand with gratitude and something else that can only be described as pride, but not the supercilious kind. Morgana sees him as one of them, and there’s nothing else in the world that can make him feel more powerful and worthy.

“I will,” he swears to her, pulling his shoulders into a perfectly straight line. “I will.”

Right before Morgana leaves, Arthur presses the choker into Morgana’s hand.

“Right,” she says, smiling. It takes her a bit of time, and she sways on her feet a little after, but by the time she’s done, she assures Arthur that the artifact is at acceptable capacity now and warns him, “ You should know that only the originator can bring it to the full power."

Arthur will take whatever he can.

“If you want to find out about the accident and where Ganeida went afterward, ask Gaius. He treated the tongue-impaired guy, and may possibly have information on her.”

“If he remembers,” Arthur mutters.

“And maybe he doesn’t. I personally don’t think it matters. _Cherchez le femme_ , and all that, but if you plan to scour and guard the entire realm to stop her from entering and dragging Merlin with her, this is not a solution.”

Arthur spends the rest of the night buried in the Department's files.

  

xxxxx


	5. Chapter 5

 

 

xxxxx

Arthur doesn’t want to speak to Gaius at the hospital -- for two reasons. One, he had just left the ward earlier yesterday, and if he could avoid going there again for a decade, he’d take that option. Second, as much as he trusts Gaius, he doesn’t trust the walls of the place. The walls can talk. And where the Department is concerned -- they always do. 

He barely waits until seven in the morning and texts him. 

 _Home?_ _Awake?_

He can’t ignore a pang of guilt in his chest, thinking that Gaius is probably tired after his shift late last night, but his leads are limited to one and the time is breathing heavy down his neck.  Merlin’s clock is ticking away. Ticking, ticking. How much does he have left? Arthur rubs the mark on the crease of his elbow again, when, to his relief Gaius responds. 

_Yes. Why?_

_In the neighborhood. May I come up?_   

Gaius is sleepy and wrinkled when he opens the door; Arthur steps in and hands him a box with donuts.  

“It’s Merlin,” he says in answer to the question, “Are you okay?” 

His heart lurches at his own words and races again. Time wouldn't stop for him, although he’d do anything to pause it, so he starts rushing the words out. “Uther approved it, and I have to stop it. I have to do something, I need your hel--” 

“Slow down, Arthur, you're making no sense.” Gaius leads Arthur into the kitchen. "What did Uther approve?" 

"Merlin's death!" Arthur shouts, and Gaius cringes, so he lowers his voice. "Uther's signed off on using _Merlin_ in a sacrifice ritual. How does _that_ make sense?" 

 "Where are you getting all this from?"

Arthur gives Gaius an annoyed look.

“Sit down.” Gaius points to one of the chairs at the kitchen table, pours water into a glass and thrusts it into Arthur's hand. “Drink. Are you hungry? Donuts are not real food.” He opens the refrigerator and starts pulling things out.

“What? No! Gaius, stop with all this, I won’t stay long.”

Gaius doesn’t listen. He starts cracking eggs into a bowl, adds some milk, then takes a loaf of bread out of the package.

“Gaius, I’m serious. _This_ is serious. Gravely, even. Fuck." Arthur looks at the glass in his hand and tries to remember how it got there, with no success. He gulps down the water and passes a hand over his face. After catching his breath he says, "Have you ever heard of a girl named Ganeida Myrddyn?”

Arthur watches his physician's expression very closely -- for a twitch of recognition in the corner of his mouth, or a twinge of the ever-arched brow, for a sign of distress or concern. Gaius has been his rock when his own father failed to be of any support, but after being _Uther-whipped_ for decades, who knows if Gaius can be as objective and trusted as Arthur needs him to be here. 

Gaius stops whisking eggs for a moment, shooting him a quick glance, then resumes the task. “I know of her. Why?” 

“She wants Merlin’s magic, his power.”

“A lot of people do,” Gaius says and starts slicing bread. 

“This is different. This is murder... Why are you so calm? Gaius, look at me!” 

Gaius puts the knife down and turns to Arthur. “Calm is not the word for it, Arthur. Let’s just say, I’ve been expecting this, maybe even looking forward to it.”

“Have you lost your mind?” He slams the glass down, and it’s a wonder it doesn’t shatter. “You’ve been looking forward to Merlin wiped of his magic and have him killed? _Killed_ , Gaius!” Arthur starts shaking. His knees are about to buckle, so he finally allows himself to sit down. He buries his face in his hands with an anguished, " _God_." 

“You’re misunderstanding my words, my boy.” Gaius reaches to Arthur, but Arthur flinches away as soon he touches him. Gaius sighs. “I believe that Ganeida, like Merlin, is part of a greater destiny. We already know of Merlin’s power and how unprecedented it is. Having a brief encounter with Gaineida some years ago, I can tell you hers might rival Merlin’s.” 

“Although not proven, this is nothing new to me. What encounter are you referring to?” Arthur asks. 

Gaius sits on the chair next to Arthur. “Ganeida was part of the program for those with supernatural abilities. She had issues controlling her power, and, as a result, she hurt someone. She was in hysterics when she was brought to the clinic --  my clinic. I had to order inpatient care and sedate her. For that, we had to involve a High Priestess as Ganeida’s magic was beyond our levels. We alone couldn’t help her.” 

“So, what, the girl had a breakdown?” 

“You can say that. She was convinced that her magic was a curse and begged us to take it away.” 

“Sounds like a good solution to me. Gaius, please tell me she’s been locked out somewhere all this time. Because if that’s true, and she somehow managed to slip in her request to Uther while institutionalized, it will take me two seconds to dismantle this case and have the approval dismissed. I might even manage to have Uther join her.” 

Gaius looks at Arthur in reproach. Arthur doesn’t blink. Fuck it all. One has to be unstable to make a decision like the one Uther has with Merlin. 

“Ganeida indeed spent some time under observation,” Gaius says, “and we were able to diagnose her properly. Aside from being a complete novice as a proper mage and scared and remorseful for hurting someone, she was perfectly healthy, mentally and otherwise. We let her go about two weeks later.” 

“Let go where? Gaius, where is she?” 

Gaius shakes his head. “I wish I knew, my boy.” 

“Thanks, Gaius; thanks a lot,” Arthur mutters, ignoring the hopelessness spreading cold in his chest. He was not going to give in to it. “No matter. It’s still obvious the girl is suffering from a severe superiority complex. Not only has she overcome her fear of her own powers, now she’s bloodthirsty for others’.” 

“I do not believe that’s the case.” 

“Why don’t you explain it to me then?” Arthur scowls at Gaius. “Why do you think this _poor, innocent_ girl is after none other than Merlin?” 

“I think she’s being manipulated.” 

Arthur shakes his hands helplessly in the air. “How is it possible? If she’s one of the strongest witches you've ever encountered? Who’d be able to manipulate--” Arthur falters, remembering Morgana’s explanation about the tracking ward installed in his apartment -- that it was a harmless device until… “Gaius?” 

“Someone representing dark magic? I know only one person, but if I were ever to give you any advice of your life, I’d tell you to stay as far from that person as possible. Wait here,” Gaius says and slowly gets up. His walk is at a snail-pace, and before he even disappears at the end of the hallway, Arthur buries his face in his hands with a groan. All this is taking a lot of time. Doesn’t Gaius understand that there’s no time? 

It takes a good five minutes before Gaius comes back, and by then Arthur is pacing the kitchen. He shoots his mentor an impatient glare, but that doesn’t help him move faster. Gaius has a large, ancient book he deposits on the table, and Arthur instantly recognizes it. “History of Old Magic.” There are at least two thousand pages, and Arthur sincerely hopes Gaius doesn’t do something atrocious, like give Arthur homework to read the entire thing. 

“What is it?” he asks, annoyance badly hidden in his voice. Gaius arches his brow and Arthur huffs. “I’m not reading all this,” he mutters.

“Any other day I’d make you, just to teach you a lesson of patience.” Gaius talks like Arthur is sixteen again and he’s about to give him a bad grade. “There’s something I want you to read. There,” he points after thumbing it for a while. 

Arthur reads out loud. “There shall be born a child from a simple woman and from a man who possesses power great enough to command and slay other creatures of the realm. Such child is to grow strong and shall bring the end of the realm’s Balance and all magic as we know it. There shall be born another child, the one destined to bring the new future and restore magic. Cherish both, for hope rests on their shoulders.”

Arthur looks up from the book. “Cherish both? Gaius, what the hell?” 

Both Gaius’s brows fly up, and Arthur mutters, “Fine.” He bites his thumb, reading the excerpt again. “So, a prophecy. Am I supposed to believe it?” 

“Do you believe in magic?” 

Arthur snorts. “I don’t think magic cares whether I believe in it or not. It just is.” 

“Then why would you question the words spoken on behalf of it?” 

Arthur stays quiet for awhile. 

“I suppose you think these children have something to do with…” Arthur runs over the words again. “Is one of them Ganeida? She’s to cause the destruction of the Balance as we know it?” 

“Quite possible,” Gaius says.  

“Fuck.” Arthur buries his hand in his hair. “So it's possible Ganeida wants to sacrifice Merlin to keep the Balance and if we won’t let her… The Balance will be disturbed to the point of collapsing the realm? I mean, that’s what the prophecy means, right? No Balance, no realm?” 

“That part is fairly clear, and others who know about the prophecy agree.” 

“And that’s why Uther allowed it… Gaius.” Arthur groans. “No. Not at this price. Not Merlin.” 

“You think I want this? He is my boy, too.”

Arthur doesn’t listen. “Gaius, what if the prophecy comes true if she _does_ have Merlin? What if it’s exactly what’s going to _tip the Balance off,_ not fix it?” 

Gaius offers no response. 

“I am not letting Merlin die.” Arthur pushes the book away with force. “No prophecy, even old and true, can tell me it’s the right thing to do. And who is this second child?” 

“Open to interpretation,” Gaius responds. 

“Just like this entire prophecy business,” Arthur says, although he can’t deny he believes it, at least in part he does. “Well, at least it's something.” He sighs. 

“Glad to help.” Gaius closes the book and moves to leave; Arthur stops him. 

“I need you to tell me something else.” 

“Yes?” 

“Who is Alice?”

 

 

xxxxx

Gaius stills for a moment; darts his eyes to Arthur. 

“Don’t you hold out on me, Gaius,” Arthur warns. “Not you. If I’m to find a connection between Ganeida and Merlin, I need help. That woman, Alice, she was connected to Ganeida. Do you know her?” 

Gaius puts the book down and lowers himself heavily onto the chair. “Alice was my… we… we have a history,” he says. “But we lost contact many years ago. When they brought Ganeida to the clinic, Alice was listed as her guardian, and I met her again.” 

Arthur breathes out a quiet laugh. Finally, finally, something substantial, and from a reliable source. 

“So, guardian. Did you talk to Alice? Did she tell you anything about Ganeida? Her parents, her birthplace, why she wasn’t registered with the Department until she was eighteen?”  

“I learned some things.” Gaius is still being more evasive than it's acceptable to Arthur, and he waves his hands impatiently at him to go on. 

“Alice took Ganeida in as a baby while she was staying with druids. She raised the girl as her own. Ganeida had early signs of being a powerful sorceress, but the druids insisted that her magic must be contained. It was bound by spells most of her life to suppress its power. Alice couldn’t stand seeing how much Ganeida suffered under the force of her magic that had no way out. When Ganeida turned eighteen, she left the druid camp, taking Ganeida with her, and they ended up in Camelot.”     

“Why Camelot?” 

Gaius shrugs. “Hiding in plain sight, for one. And Alice heard rumors about programs for young people with magic. She wanted that for Ganeida, but it took her awhile to locate one. As you know, there’s no advertisement for it.” 

“I know it very well,” Arthur says through his teeth. “Why would druids do such a cruel thing to a little girl? Artificially suppressed magic is no better than iron shackles. It’s a terrible treatment; and for a child?” 

“Arthur, most prophecies have originated from druids. Don’t think for a minute that they didn’t suspect Ganeida's possible role in this one. I assume they didn’t want her magic to grow, just in case.” 

For a moment, Arthur wishes that they hadn’t let her leave the camp those years ago, and he shudders at his own despicable thoughts. 

“Do we know who Ganeida’s parents are?” he asks, scrubbing his cheek roughly. 

“Alice never told me.” 

“Why don’t we ask her now?” Arthur gets up. “Is she still in Camelot? Do you know her address?” 

Gaius doesn’t answer for the longest time. He stares at the book, his hands making circles around the edges of it, up and down. 

“Gaius?” 

When Gaius speaks, his voice is barely audible, “Alice is dead.” 

“God, Gaius, I’m so sorry.” Arthur says it, and really, he is sorry for Gaius’s loss, but deep down he is also not surprised that yet another lead has been severed. At this point, anything above vague descriptions and hearsay is a gift Arthur doesn’t seem to deserve and shouldn't expect. 

“How did she die?” he asks slowly, unsure how to show sensitivity while trying to find necessary answers. 

“The official Department’s version is accidental poison by a Mantecore, a creature she allegedly kept as a pet. Of course, it’s pure nonsense. Having a Mantecore as a pet is as realistic as being able to charm a Fomorroh with a flute. She was killed.”  

“And you haven’t tried to find out the truth?” 

Gaius looks at Arthur with a solemn expression on his face. “You’re asking me if I think it was Ganeida’s work? Even if the thought had entered my mind, I never entertained it.” 

“Why?” 

“For a person who was sick with regret about merely hurting someone, to turn around and kill a mother-figure? Doesn’t make any sense.” 

“And you maintain that she is a sane person.” 

Gaius looks annoyed. “Arthur, unless you’d like to imply that I employ incompetent staff, I don’t think you should keep questioning it.” 

“Okay, fine. I get it.” 

“Besides, if it were her doing, why would the Department cover for her?” 

Good question. 

“The Department is covering for _someone,_ if your theory is correct, and Alice’s death wasn’t an accident.” 

They stay quiet for a while, both thinking. Gaius gets up to finish cooking, but Arthur can't even think about food right now. Foreboding in the air is so thick, he can almost smell it, and it's nauseating. 

“So, what do I do, Gaius?” he asks, when silence becomes unbearable. “Where do I go from here? I don’t know where Merlin is. I don’t even know if he wants my help. It sounds like Merlin is not being given a choice here; it’s wrong, all of it, and I can’t walk away.” 

Gaius places the plate with French toast in front of Arthur. 

“Tell me something,” he says and sits down again. “I know you’ve done everything possible to avoid this topic, but I think it’s important. What happened between you and Merlin? Why do you think he left?” 

The discussions about Merlin -- about his whereabouts, his new interests, or new lovers -- have been a taboo around him as an unspoken rule. Merlin left, taking their friends with him except for Gwaine and Leon, and he was _fine_ with that. Relationships and friends are not household items you can divide fifty-fifty after splitting up. Arthur prefers not to think about the state of his heart for the past year, but when he does, he has no choice but to admit that half of it truly is missing, and at this rate there’s no hope of recovery.  

Arthur takes a deep breath. The next words out of his mouth don’t come willingly. Pride, his stupid pride, has always been in the way of talking about that day, and it was easy to let it win. Not anymore. “He told me he was doing it for me.” 

“I’m not surprised,” Gaius says softly. “That boy really loved you.” 

Arthur doesn’t know how to respond. Maybe some day, after he saves Merlin, he’ll have a good answer. Maybe after he sees his face and not a hallucination induced by the realm, he’d be able to talk about how he still doesn’t understand what triggered Merlin’s abrupt departure. How do you tell people that he just up and went and never looked back?  

The only person he ever allowed himself to talk about Merlin with was Freya, and only once, and even that couldn’t really be considered a conversation. It was mostly Freya's crying and saying, "I can’t, I can’t, I made a promise. _"_  

Her desperate refusal wrecked him, so he told her he never wanted to see her again. What was the point? Wasn’t he hurt enough? He regrets it now -- his damn pride again. Because not a month later, Freya was gone -- magicked the highest level of the realm she could muster and stepped into it. She was found hours later, one side of her body still human and charred by magic, the other side, shifted into that of a panther -- claws mangled, fur bloody, and one tattered, featherless wing folded brokenly on her back. Arthur knows this because he was there when she was brought in. As was Gaius, who looked like he lost ten years in one day, and Will, who refused to speak to Arthur. The Department had called Will to identify her. As if they didn’t already know. As if her being _Bastet_ wasn’t unique enough of a feature to recognize her. 

Her death was neither quick nor painless, and it was so utterly, so devastatingly pointless, he couldn’t get it out of his head. Somehow, he felt it was his fault; that he should’ve, could’ve done something to prevent it. He kept thinking that it could have been Merlin in her place, who’d always been careless with his magic, so cock-sure of himself and his abilities. Merlin always acted as if the realm was an amusement park and the levels were fun roller-coasters to ride. And the bond kept pulling, calling for Arthur, complaining about being too far away. It was whispering in his head that he didn’t have to be denied magic, and if he wanted it badly enough, he could find his way into the realm on his own. And so he did. 

When Arthur called Will to offer help with Freya’s funeral, Will cursed him to the deepest depths of hell and hung up. He didn’t open the door when Arthur came to see him, either. In respect to everyone who ever cared for Freya, he had anonymously made all the required arrangements according to Freya’s will, but never showed up at the wake, letting the loved ones grieve as they deserved -- in private. 

There were other people, like Hunith, who hadn't been well for years, which was why Merlin ended up living with Gaius. She was sweet and loving, and not stable in the head, her condition getting progressively worse with the years. Arthur kept coming to see her even after Merlin dumped him. She loved telling him about Merlin's frequent visits, doing so in a greatly animated fashion, often inviting the nurses to confirm her stories, and they always did with a soft and indulgent, "Yes, Hunith. Of course, sweetheart. Your son is the best." 

Arthur needed those stories; and every time he visited Hunith he dreaded yet couldn’t stop fantasizing about the possibility of meeting Merlin there, even if it was something as quick as bumping into him in a hall by accident. He'd be civil, he kept promising himself. He wouldn't punch him, or kiss him until Merlin punched _him_. He wouldn't even talk to Merlin. All Arthur wanted was to see his face again. A year was an awfully long time without it. 

“Loved me? I don’t know. I--” Arthur rubs his forehead. “We were fine one day, brilliant, actually. First year after college, got ourselves an apartment." Arthur smiles, remembering their excitement. A bed, of course, was their first purchase together. “We were planning our next trip. Merlin had a workshop and I was going to go with him, all the usual.” 

Their anniversary was the next day. Merlin seemed nervous, so nervous, he kept getting up during the night. Arthur thought that at some point he even heard Merlin throwing up in the bathroom, but he was tired, limbs and head heavy with sleep. He meant to get up, but before the thought was complete, he was fast asleep again, and Merlin was fine, and precious, and his usual cheerful self in the morning. They had a picnic in the afternoon, complete with champagne, chocolate and all that, and Arthur laughed that he wasn’t a girl, but somewhere in the back of his mind he let himself hope that the reason Merlin was acting weird was because he was going to propose, and Arthur, no questions, was completely fine with that idea. 

None of that was meant to be. Instead, Merlin asked him to please, please understand and to trust him, and Arthur kept nodding with, “Anything, anything, love,” trying to ignore the apologetic, painful expression on Merlin’s face. Merlin clung to him and kissed him, deeply, adoringly -- at least that was how Arthur thought of it at the time -- and that took his mind off anything else but Merlin’s mouth on his and his possessive fingers in his hair, so Arthur completely missed the moment of being pulled into the realm. They were on their knees and Arthur was panting, unsure if it was because of the realm or because Merlin’s tongue was licking insistently into his mouth and his hand was stroking him through his jeans. 

The rest happened quickly -- too quickly to remember. 

He woke up next morning in his bed, with patches of hair burnt on his chest and a headache so massive, he spent the entire day lying in. It was only that evening that he realized that it wasn’t just a horrible dream -- Merlin really was gone. He had indeed left him. 

“So, Gaius, I don’t know what to tell you. Most of his things were there, but he never came by to pick them up. It appeared he had asked for time off at his work, and no one could tell me where he’d gone to. Do you know?” 

The look on Gaius’ face is so mournful, Arthur wants to cry. “Arthur, Merlin's been gone for more than a year now. I don’t know where he is at the moment.” 

"Oh." He tries to school his expression into something less of  stricken by the unexpected news. "But he does talk to you still, right? He's been okay? It's fine, you can tell me, I can handle it now.”  

Gaius shakes his head. "No, he completely cut us off from his life. He’s gone."

If the events of the last two days haven’t shocked Arthur enough, these last words do the trick. Arthur slumps down on the stool, his mind going completely blank. 

“Arthur,” Gaius rushes to his side. “ I don’t mean _gone_ gone.” 

"I know, Gaius.” His voice hollow. “I _know_ he’s alive.” 

Arthur is absolutely certain that Ganeida hasn’t gotten to him yet. It’s not just the pull of the bond that makes him sure, it’s also the shadow of Merlin’s _subrealm_ that declares itself whenever Arthur enters it -- another part of Merlin that Arthur’s got to keep, although the presence of it is so thin, so ephemeral, Arthur often questions its existence. Most of the time it’s more like a whisper of air, a brief, gentle brush across his jaw, or a warm nudge to his chest. 

Arthur had thought about trying to communicate with Merlin through the realm, having this crazy idea, not even an idea -- sixth sense, more like it -- that Merlin might hear him, but that’s exactly what stops him. What if Merlin _can_? He’d probably laugh at him -- or worse -- claim his gift back.  And where that would leave Arthur, besides going through deep humiliation and another loss? So he never does it, never exercises his desire to try to call for magic in the level that technically was Merlin’s gift to him.  

“I know Merlin is still alive,” Arthur repeats with renewed confidence. “But not for fucking long if we don’t hurry up. Will you help me?”

“Whatever’s in my power. But you can’t make hasty decisions on such serious matters.”

“Then tell me what to do!”

“I am not sure, Arthur. I’ve tried to find him, I’ve spent months searching. He seems untraceable.” 

“But,” a thought strikes Arthur, “if that’s the case, how can he be regularly visiting Hunith? That’s all she talks about every time I see her.” And it’s very taxing on Arthur’s tattered heart. 

“Not to me,” Gaius says. “She’s never forgiven me for taking Merlin away and placing her under inpatient care.” 

“Yeah.” Arthur sighs; he knows all this. “Anyway, the nurses mentioned it to me.” 

Gaius frowns. "That’s strange." 

"You know what's strange? Merlin's no longer registered with the Department," Arthur says.

"Any ideas why?" 

Gaius slowly shakes his head but doesn't say anything. 

''I have a hard time believing Uther doesn't share anything with you. He trusts you more than anyone.'' 

Gauis sighs. "Arthur, yes. I’m in charge of the Department’s medical facility, but I don’t run Uther’s operations, nor drive his decisions.”

  
Arthur gives him a look; Gaius isn’t the only one who can express strong opinions by a twitch of a facial muscle. 

“Yes, I do help to cover tracks here and there,” Gaius protests. “But out of necessity. People who are hurt by magic can’t go to a regular hospital. We can’t openly use magic to treat them, either.” 

“And you don’t see anything wrong with that? You don’t think there would be a lot less casualties if magic wasn’t a secret? Or that you wouldn’t be more effective in your care if you didn’t have to hide?” 

“Maybe, but there are laws, conventions. It’s all well regulated.”  

“All my friends have magic, Gaius! And their lives are one big lie!” And apparently not worth a penny. 

“Stop being so dramatic.” Gaius grimaces. “They grew up learning how to manage it. They’ve been properly groomed according to their abilities, and look, they support the system. They’ve accepted it.” 

Not all of them. 

“I wouldn’t be so sure. None of my friends are happy.” 

“You’re projecting.” 

“I’m speaking the truth! This... This _Balance_ everyone keeps talking about. It's the most hypocritical concept I have ever heard of. There’s no sense to it at all.” 

“It’s been working this way for centuries. This is how it is.” 

“It doesn’t have to be.” 

“You’re undermining the agreement made by magic users themselves. They wanted it this way.” 

“Well, then they were wrong. Instead of hiding, they should’ve shown the world the good and the bad, taught us that it’s not magic that corrupts, but people who don’t have best intentions at heart.” 

Gaius shakes his head with a sad smile. “Most painful mistakes and disastrous decisions are the result of the best intentions. There are a handful of people who are pure evil. The rest are just _people_.” 

“Oh, just _people._ Regular folks. Like me?” Arthur asks bitterly. 

“No Arthur. You are special.” 

“God, Gaius, what am I, five? Stop coddling me.” 

“That is not what I'm doing." 

Arthur tries to reel in his rage. What’s the point of arguing when they both know where they stand? 

“Gaius, they’re going to sacrifice him, like an _animal_ ,” he says, his voice cracking. 

“Well then, you have your work cut out for you. Prove Uther wrong.” 

Arthur laughs bitterly. “And here we are, come full circle. _How?_ ” 

Gaius’s thinks with absent expression, then asks, “I recall something from your last visit to the realm. An artifact. Yes?" 

"You know very well that artifacts are the only way for me to get in." 

"Yes, and you entered the fourth level with it? On your own?" 

There’s enough reprimand in Gaius’s tone to make Arthur cringe. "With Leon.” 

“And Leon’s only level two.” 

“All I needed to do was snatch the violator. Leon was there in case the victim needed immediate medical attention,” Arthur defends his decision to chase Mordred with little backup and an untested artifact. 

“But you didn't call for backup.”

“No, I didn't. We were short-handed at the time.” 

“Arthur…” 

“Gaius, yes, it was stupid. But it’s done; can we please move on?” 

The expression on Gaius’s face makes no such promise, although he says, “Sure. So, you kept the thing?” 

"I kept the thing.” Arthur’s thankful for the reprieve, as little as it is. 

"Do you have it on you?" 

Arthur pulls the choker out of his pocket and hands it to Gaius, who holds it as if weighing it. 

“It’s almost full,” Gaius says, looking at Arthur with surprise. 

“Morgana.” 

“Ah, good boy.” 

Arthur smiles and adds, “I’m pretty sure it's also a tracking device of sorts. At least that's my understanding, and I was told not to part with it, so i guess it's mine now. I must be stupid, listening to a dragon." 

"Who?" 

"Kilgharrah." 

Gauis’s mouth slacks a little. "You met Kilgharrah?" 

Arthur shrugs. "I did, yes." 

Gaius makes a choking sound, and quickly covers it by coughing. "He revealed himself to you as a dragon?" 

"Did a half-assed job at that, if you ask me. I had to guess. But yes." 

Gaius looks at Arthur and starts grinning. "Arthur, he never reveals himself, even in the realm, unless under special circumstances. Last time was... Well it's been decades. To meet a dragon is _a privilege_." 

"Well, I thought he was a jerk." 

"You live a thousand years and be forced to shed hundreds of pounds of skin every two decades, see how cranky you get." 

"Dragons shed?" 

"Normal for his species, even magical. It’s called ecdysis.” Gaius says it all with a serious face. 

Arthur blinks a few times, having a hard time absorbing it. Discussing the shedding schedule of a thousand-year-old dragon was not part of his plan when he came here. “What I don’t know won’t kill me,” he mutters eventually. “And this I definitely don’t need to know.” 

Gaius pulls a magnifying glass out of his pocket and brings the choker closer to his face, studying it through the glass. “Yes, just as I thought,” he mumbles. 

“What does it say?” Arthur asks. 

Gaius looks up, smiling. “The future has taken root in the present.” 

 

“What?” Arthur asks.

“You asked me what it says.” 

“Yes, that helped. Any other, less cryptic messages?” 

“It can’t be more clear, Arthur.” 

“Right. I was dropped on my head as a child; had a troubled youth... Goddammit!” Arthur blows up. “Could you _please_ stop talking to me like I’m mentally challenged?” 

“It means _you_ are the future, Arthur.” Gaius doesn’t pay attention to Arthur’s wild gesticulation in his face. “You’re destined to make a big difference in present.” 

“Me? It says it there? That it's me?" Arthur points to the pendant. 

Gaius sighs. “You’ve had this artifact in your possession for how long?”

“While conscious? For a day, maybe. Between chasing criminals in the realm, meeting dragons, and finding out about Merlin, I was kind of busy. I'm sorry I didn’t look up what appears to be a divine sign of my destiny.” 

“Oh, do be quiet. Here,” Gaius waves his hand. “Give me your arm.” 

“Why?” Childhood memories of Gaius drawing blood when Arthur was sick flood in. He hides his hands behind his back.

Gaius smiles. “Someone told me recently he’s all grown up.” 

Arthur rolls his eyes and thrusts his right arm at Gaius. Gaius turns it over, pushes up the sleeve of his jacket and says, “No, the other one.” 

Arthur does so with even more reluctance. Gaius repeats the process and passes his hand over the mark inside Arthur’s elbow. “Look,” he says, and presses the pendant right next to the mark. 

The effect is immediate, and it stuns Arthur. At the contact with the metal of the artifact, the blood rushes to his head, making him dizzy and the mark pops up, instantly blood-red, dark and vivid, and the lines bulge into a sign, which is an exact replica of the one on the pendant.  

“Whoa,” Arthur whispers. “I never... This is..." He circles the mark, then the pendant with a careful finger, the metal heats up under his touch and it's not unpleasant. "It feels right." 

“For it has found its true owner.” 

“Two days ago in the realm, I thought it hated it me.” 

“Remember what I’ve always told you? Magic needs to be harnessed, groomed. Treat it right, with respect, and it will pay you in kind.” 

“But this is not... I don’t have magic,” Arthur protests, but as he says it, something indiscernible begins blooming warmly in his chest. 

“Could've fool me.” Gaius smiles. 

“How do you know about the…” Arthur gestures to his arm. 

“The bond?” 

“Yes.” 

“Oh, Arthur. Merlin prepared for it for six months. Bonding is a serious ritual. Of course I knew. I blessed him.”

Arthur takes a deep breath. “Gaius, thank you.” 

“Anything, my boy.” He pulls his robe together, adding, “Merlin had no control over the scripture itself, but everything happens for a reason. I hope you believe it now.” 

Arthur nods, his head swimming with information. None of it is complete yet. He needs so much more to round it all up and find out how all the pieces are connected, but he can’t help the hopeful feeling that starts rising in his chest. Whatever happened in the past, the present is here, and if he can have any control over it, he might as well try to change his and Merlin's future. 

“Gaius, if you were me,” he says, “What would you do now?” 

Gaius looks more determined as well. “There’s only one person who can help you. And if you’ve met Kilgharrah, it means this person's already involved.”

“Who?” 

“His name is Balinor.”

 

 

xxxxx

Gaius hands the artifact back to Arthur. “Balinor might not have all the answers, but he holds the highest rank in the magic community. If he can’t help, no one can.” 

Arthur is not going to take no for an answer. He nods. “So, where do I find him?” 

“The realm, where else.” Gaius sighs. “I suspect wearing the artifact will do the trick. If he wants you to find him, the artifact will pull you in the right direction.” 

“Okay.” Arthur carefully tucks the necklace into the pocket.  

“Arthur, I know you’re eager,” Gaius says, “but I really don't think it’s a good idea for you to go back to the realm right now. You’re too weak. You haven't eaten and you haven't given yourself enough rest. You look terrible.“ 

“No, I’m strong enough. I’m going if that’s what I have to do. Besides, Gwaine’s already waiting outside. He's texted me three times already. I'll ask him to go with me.” 

Gaius looks around and grabs the box with donuts Arthur brought in earlier. “Here, take it. Please eat before giving the rest to Gwaine. And tell him I’ll wring his neck if he takes his eyes off of you even for one moment in the realm. You must be--” 

“I know, I know. Careful. Smart.  All that.” 

Arthur hugs Gaius, takes the box, and leaves.

 

 

xxxxx

Gwaine is waiting outside, of course, chewing on a french baguette - or what’s left of it. Arthur rolls his eyes, takes one donut out of the box he’s still holding, and hands the rest of it against Gwaine’s chest. “Here, have some more.”

“No apples?” Gwaine whines.

“My complaint box is full.” Arthur stars walking.

“Where to?”

“The realm, of course.”

“Right now?”

“Why not? Remember the artifact?” Arthur pulls the choker out of his pocket. “The theory is when I have it on I’m easily tracked.”

“Hell, even I'd feel violated.”

“Tell me about it.” Arthur wraps the necklace around his wrist, still not completely trusting it to tie it around his neck again so soon. The pendant's cold against his skin only for a moment. Then, it’s like a part of his skin -- warm and bound.

He turns to Gwaine. “Going in?”

“With you?” Gwaine grins. “Nah.”

He stuffs a whole donut into his mouth, tosses the box to the side, and, grabbing Arthur by his shoulder, pulls him in. They fall into the realm in a tight embrace, and for once, Arthur appreciates it.

 

 

xxxxx


	6. Chapter 6

xxxxxx

A quick caress of the _subrealm_ brushes his cheek as they pass through, but Gwaine doesn’t let him dwell on it and pulls them deeper. When they stop, Arthur doesn’t recognize the location anymore. He feels weird, kind of wrong in the head, but he definitely has no issues breathing or with his vision. 

His voice sounds funny, as if he’s inhaled some helium. Gwaine laughs, and he sounds fine, completely fine. Bastard. 

“Gwaine, quit this shit. I know it’s you.” 

“Hey, you need to stop being so serious all the time. I can make it worthwhile for us here, you know.” Gwaine smiles suggestively. 

“I don’t think I care for it.” 

Gwaine turns serious in an instant. “And what a pity, what a pity that is.” 

Arthur falls in step with Gwaine as they walk down the block, cross the street, make a turn, cross another street. The sun is dim and the buildings are grey. Even Gwaine, with his love for tricks and mood enhancements, can’t magic it up with the sunshine and rainbows here. 

A tug at Arthur’s wrist is a sign for him to look around, then up. 

“Yep, I think this is it,” Gwaine says, nodding at the large house with _The Department of Alternative Solutions_ painted in white and kind of crookedly, as if by an uncaring hand, over the arch.

“Short of flashing it in neon, it couldn’t be more obvious,” Arthur comments, curling his fingers around the artifact, ready for whatever ride they’re about to subject themselves to. 

“Nice name. I sense a jab at your father’s life mission.” Gwaine smirks. 

Which is exactly what Arthur is looking for right now -- or more like for a definitive blow against the entire system Uther’s built. 

Arthur falters and looks around. The lack of crowds or even cars on the street is clearly premeditated -- no witnesses, no crime.  

“No sweat, partner, you’re here with me. Go on.” Gwaine gestures. 

The first floor is nothing to write home about -- empty lobby and stairs leading to the elevator. That’s it. Strange. 

“No guards?” 

“Not even one pretty PA to greet you. Arthur, I’m offended for you,” Gwaine says. 

“You got me here, ” Arthur mutters. 

“Yeah, but I’m not the one who’s bossed it all into this shape. This is no child's play.”

The elevator’s doors open, and Arthur peers inside before stepping in. Five buttons, the one for the fifth floor is already glowing. Arthur exchanges a glance with Gwaine, who shrugs and walks in first.      

As soon as both of them are in, the elevator jolts and takes off without them touching anything. They roll their shoulders, crack their necks, and plant their feet firmer on the floor. As if on cue, soothing music starts playing through the speaker on the control panel. 

Gwaine snorts.”Let the mindfuck begin,” he mutters, and Arthur nods, liking all this no more than Gwaine. 

“Stay close,” Gwaine says when the elevator dings and stops. 

“ _You_ stay close,” Arthur snaps. 

"Bossy." Gwaine grins. “ _Hot_.” 

“Do you want to keep your job?” Arthur asks in a low voice. 

“You wouldn’t sack me. Who’d watch your hot piece of ass if I’m gone?” 

“Good question. Hello, gentlemen,” a man greets them. The doors of the elevator are already magically open. 

Arthur recognizes him instantly. 

“Kilgharrah,” he says through his teeth, “fancy meeting you here” -- not that it's a surprise. 

“I do not appreciate your tone, young Pendragon. Or the fact that you didn’t come alone.” 

“And who are _you_?” Gwaine asks, checking Kilgharrah over with a squinty eye. 

“Not who we’re looking for,” Arthur says, still keeping his eyes on Kilgharrah. “You had to speak riddles and make me work for it, didn’t you?”

“I am not sure I understand what you mean.” Kilgharrah blinks innocently, and Arthur recalls the image from their first encounter: the yellow elongated eyes, the long neck between narrow, sharp-angled shoulders, the brilliance of the skin. And the claws. 

None of that here now -- so, he can play along when he wants to, apparently. Arthur isn’t even sure they’re still in the realm. It doesn’t feel like it physically, which is surprising, but then he notes a light sheen of moss on the walls of the elevator and all his doubts disappear, which doesn’t mean he’s not intrigued by the behavior of the realm on this level. 

“I am not having this conversation with you,” he says and steps out of the elevator, walking around Kilgharrah; Gwaine follows him very closely, practically breathing down his neck. They walk through a lobby into a square-shaped room, which is a waiting area with a few rows of chairs and several closed doors. There’s no one behind the front desk, and it’s dead quiet. 

“Who were you planning to talk to here, then?” Kilgharrah asks, smiling. He leans over the desk when the phone starts ringing, startling Arthur, and quickly presses several buttons to silence it, as if he’s done it a million times. “As you can see, our office is currently closed.” He says it as if he’s talking to a small, cranky child who hasn’t learned how to behave in public yet. 

“I’d like some coffee, please,” Arthur says, ignoring the tone, considering whether it’s a good idea to take one of the chairs. He opts against it. “Please inform your boss of our arrival. In case he missed the memo.” 

“Doubt it,” Gwaine mutters. He waves an arrogant hand in Kilgharrah’s direction and says, “Make it two. I take mine with milk. My partner here,” he points at Arthur, “likes his strong, with two sugars. Can you make it happen, _sugar_?” 

The air around them shifts alarmingly fast into hostile, harsh prickles against the skin. Kilgharrah’s nostrils flare and his eyes glow with furious gold. Gwaine responds in kind. _Stupid_. He doesn’t know what Arthur already knows about Kilgharrah. This man is not just magic. The law doesn’t apply to him, and he can, without effort, fry them to a crisp quite literally. So, Arthur’s only hope is that their lives are valuable enough to his master to keep the dragon from ending them right here and now, despite Gwaine’s idiotic notion that Arthur needs protection.  

“Kilgharrah, please.” Arthur hears a voice, and turns around to find a man standing in the door of one of the rooms. 

Gwaine makes a strange sound, and when Arthur looks at him, Gwaine makes a slight gesture to Arthur's wrist with the artifact, then at his neck, then pointedly glances at the man. Ah, Arthur gets it. The powerful, unregistered sorcerer. Looks like things are getting more interesting by the minute. 

The man is tall, dressed in black trousers and a grey cable-knit sweater. He has a well-groomed beard and his hair is in a long ponytail. His expression’s one of mild interest. The man is fit, Arthur notes, in his late forties, probably, and incredibly handsome, with dark eyes under thick brows, well-proportioned face, and even the beard can’t hide the fullness of his lips. 

Arthur’s never been into older men, but here, he can’t help a thought that he probably wouldn’t mind it. And not just because he finds him extremely attractive -- the combination of his salt-and-pepper hair, an inquisitive gleam in his eyes and tan skin making him almost striking -- there’s a certain air about him, a presence that can’t be mistaken for anything else -- this man emanates power. Somehow, Arthur's sure that he's not used to asking for a single thing -- he already has it all. Including a dragon at his service, who at the moment is not being received well by his best friend. 

“Are you planning to actually do your duties?” He hears Gwaine ask Kilgharrah. Gwaine sounds bored, while Arthur knows he’s on full alert and doesn’t miss a thing about this room and these people. This is how Gwaine works -- pushes buttons to get a reaction and see where to go from there. Today it might be not such a good idea. “Is this your boss?” Gwaine asks. “Aren’t you going to introduce us?” 

Kilgharrah gives Gwaine a piercing look, full of disdain. 

“No need. I know who you are,” the man cuts in and looks at Arthur. “Arthur Pendragon.” He nods curtly as a greeting. “Thank you for finding the time. I didn’t expect you so soon.” 

“Why procrastinate?” Arthur shrugs. 

The man smiles. “That’s true. My working hours haven’t started yet though.” 

“Pitty. Late riser?” Arthur asks, with mock sympathy. 

“And you’re not?” 

“Not by choice. I like to sleep in when I can. Haven’t had a chance in a while, unfortunately.” 

“Why not? Busy saving the world?” 

Arthur nods. “Absolutely. Violators everywhere. You know -- vampires without licenses, dragons without registrations.” 

“Are you the traffic police?” the man asks, eyes sparkling with amusement. 

“Don’t you just wish.” 

“No, Arthur, I don’t. I think you’re in the right place and are very good at your job.” 

Arthur’s not buying it. “I didn’t come here for your evaluation. Tell your pet to let my partner go.” 

The man stops smiling but doesn’t react. 

“ _Now_ ,” Arthur says and stretches his right hand along his thigh in unmistakable warning.

The man glances at it and turns to Kilgharrah, giving him an imperceptible lift of his chin. 

Arthur looks at Gwaine, who’s way too stiff and silent. His face’s red and shakes from strain, as if he’s been holding his breath for a very long time. 

Kilgharrah sighs, and Gwaine slumps down with a desperate intake of breath. 

“Bastard,” he coughs out, drops his hands on his knees and hangs his head between his shoulders, wheezing. 

“Now you got it,” KIlgharrah says, almost sweetly, while he scowls at him. “Remind me, did you say milk? Low-fat okay?” He gives Gwaine a condescending once-over. “I'd go easier on those donuts if I were you.” 

Gwaine raises his head and glares back without responding -- his first smart move all morning. 

Kilgharrah’s harsh expression changes as soon as he turns back to the man at the door. “Would you like--” he starts. 

“Not yet,” the man answers quietly, and there’s a hint of something else in his tone -- a mix of patience and fondness -- if such a combination is possible. “Tea would be nice.” 

"As you wish." Kilgharrah dips his head. 

The man makes a low, approving sound in his throat; a crease between his brows smoothes out, as does the sharpness in his gaze, and a smile touches the corner of his mouth; it's small, private even, as if it _pleases_ him to see the other man mouthy with strangers one moment, and yielding to his every word the next.  

“I do,” he says. 

“Tea then, sire _,_ ” Kilgharrah murmurs, dropping his gaze; he turns and walks away.  

“Well?” The man gestures for Arthur and Gwaine to follow him into the room. They do. 

“ _Sire_?” Gwaine mouths at Arthur, comically widening his eyes. “Is this a munch club? I am so in,” he says in barely a whisper as they walk. 

Arthur tries not to laugh. “Do calm down.” He prays that the man who now stands by the window, staring outside, didn’t hear them. 

After a few awkward moments of standing in the room and shifting from one foot to the other, since they haven’t been offered to sit down, Arthur clears his throat. 

The man doesn’t react. He keeps staring out the window, and his shoulders relax a little only when Kilgharrah comes through the door holding a tray. 

 _He_ is _a goddamn secretary_ , Arthur thinks, and this just doesn’t compute in his head, although the visual is striking - a man, who by all means is a vicious magical creature, is standing in the middle of the room, expertly balancing a tray full of china next to his head, his eyes burning with devotion, fixed on one person as if there's no one else in the room. 

“Are we interrupting something? Should we come by later?” Gwaine asks, barely hiding the amusement in his voice. 

Arthur brings himself to focus again, taking in the room, sparsely furnished but with an expensive, thick rug on the floor, and the bookshelves taking up most of the wall space. The desk is cluttered with... Arthur isn’t sure what it is the desk is covered with -- some tchotchkes of various sizes and color, not all of them intact. A kit with brushes and some sort of metal tools is open in the middle of the table, and Arthur now notices that the air smells like glue. 

Kilgharrah places the tray on the corner of the table, careful not to move anything. He straightens, angling his body in such a way that leaves no doubt that he’s here to serve one man and one man only. 

“Would you like me to stay?” he asks quietly. 

The man turns to Kilgharrah’s voice, eyes coming into focus again, and he nods. “For now.” He glances at Arthur as he leaves his post by the window. “Please do sit down.” 

Arthur takes the seat closest to him, and Gwaine walks to stand next to him. Stubborn, loyal Gwaine. 

Kilgharrah doesn’t sit down, either. He moves smoothly and without a sound, and positions himself by the wall a few steps away. Arthur swears that his _colors_ go dim, as if the opacity of his appearance has been turned down so he can blend in with the pattern of the books on the shelves. 

“Shall I introduce myself?” the man asks as he’s sitting down. 

Arthur thinks for a moment about his answer and figures he isn’t interested in playing more games. 

“You’re Balinor,” he says, not doubting it for a moment. “A dragonlord.” He shoots a glance at Kilgharrah, who keeps his eyes on his master. 

Gwaine makes a small choking sound next to him; about time for him to realize he's been playing with fire, quite literally. 

“Yes," Balinor says. "And I believe we have a mutual interest in the matter you are here about.” 

Arthur tries to keep his voice steady when he speaks.“Merlin. I’m here because of Merlin.” 

Balinor nods. “Right.” 

“And to thank you for saving my life,” Arthur adds. “Two days ago.” 

Balinor picks up one of the tchotchkes from the table and starts inspecting it, turning it between his fingers. “It wasn’t me, per se. I just helped.” 

There’s no point in this man hiding the level of power he holds in the realm, but if he prefers to keep it modest, Arthur isn’t going to push. That they both know the truth is enough. 

“Well, thank you for the help, then,” he allows. “I suppose you expect me to return the favor one day.” 

“You’re already doing it.” Balinor smiles briefly, puts down one figurine, and picks up another. It’s a bird; the colors are somewhat faded and even from the distance, Arthur can see that one of the wings is missing. Balinor spreads the pieces on the table as if he’s looking for something, and Arthur wonders why he doesn’t use magic to find what he’s looking for or just fix the wing, if that’s what he’s after.  

“I’m afraid we’re not on even ground here,” Arthur says, sitting up straighter. “I suspect you know a lot about me and my... connection to Merlin.” 

“You’d like to know what connection Merlin has to me.” Balinor raises his eyes from the bird. 

“That would be nice, but mostly I’d like to know if your agenda is different from Ganeida Myrddyn’s, whom I have no doubt you’re aware of, as well as of her intentions. I want to know how to stop that bitch.” 

Kilgharrah makes a huffing noise and Balinor makes a similar hissing one at the same time, and they're not happy sounds. These two men are so attuned to each other, Arthur can't say he's excited about his chances if he ever ends up standing in their way. 

The problem is, it’s probably already too late. He’s pissed on someone’s cornflakes and so has Merlin, and even if Balinor and his precious pet dragon might not like it, he’s already laid his path. 

“You can’t talk about Ganeida that way,” Kilgharrah says. 

Arthur’s seeing spots, he gets furious so fast. “Ah, so the girl with dark magic means something to you. Not so unbiased after all, Mister I-don’t-take-sides, are you?" 

“You've no idea what you're talking about, infant,” Kilgharrah hisses. 

“Stop,” Balinor says, and Kilgharrah snaps his mouth shut instantly, which still doesn’t prevent him from glaring at Arthur with vehemence. “Arthur, it is not that simple.” 

Arthur snorts. “If it were simple, would I be here today?" He thinks for a moment. "Or maybe I would -- with a warrant for your arrest for practicing magic in Camelot without registration.” 

Balinor turns to Kilgharrah and says with a smile, “Doesn’t sound particularly grateful, does he?” 

“No, sire,” Kilgharrah responds with a serious face. “But that’s Pendragon for you.” 

Balinor looks at Arthur. “You think your father doesn’t know about us.” 

Arthur crosses his arms on his chest. “Oh, I’m not that stupid. Of course he knows about you. But whatever agreement you’ve made with him, my father is just one man. I don’t represent him; I represent the law.” 

“Yet you sound just like your father.” Kilgharrah jabs where it hurts, and Arthur cannot allow it. 

“I’m nothing like him!” he spits out. “And make no mistake, I'll have no qualms stripping you of magic if you make one wrong move.” 

Kilgharrah laughs. “Oh, child, I’d like to see you try.”

“Enough!” Balinor barks and slams his palm on the table. Arthur swears he feels a tremble pass under his feet. “ _Kilgharrah._ ” The name out of Balinor’s mouth is a command, the harsh snap of a lash in the air. 

Kilgharrah unglues himself from the wall and makes it to the desk in two strides. 

“Check the fifth and up. Now, please.” 

Kilgharrah opens his mouth to say something and Balinor stops him immediately with, “No.” 

Kilgharrah shoots a short, visible puff of air through his nose. “Fine. Fifth and up.” 

“Take your time,” Gwaine says, eyeing him with a smirk. 

“You’re going with him,” Balinor says in a tone allowing no objections. “You will help.” 

Gwaine cocks his head. “Let me guess. Check the first through fourth?” 

“Precisely.” 

Gwaine looks at Arthur, who gives him a slight shrug. 

“All right.” Gwaine slaps his hands on his knees and gets up. He makes a deliberate circle around Arthur’s chair and murmurs, “I’ll wait right outside,” before leaving. 

“Great.”  It would suck tremendously if Gwaine left Arthur in what he suspects is a weird hybrid of elements from several levels twisted together, impossible for low-levels like Leon or Arthur, even Gwaine -- a reality for Balinor and a testament to his power. 

“So,” Arthur says as soon as the door closes behind Gwaine. “Can we skip pleasantries now and get straight to the issue?” 

“Let's establish the ground rules first. Clarify for me: are you here representing the Department, or is this a personal matter to you?” Balinor asks.

Whatever would give Arthur the advantage here. 

He looks at Balinor and makes a decision. “Personal matter. I need to find Merlin. Can you help me?” 

Balinor sighs. “Finding him is not a problem, Arthur. To get him out of the predicament he's got himself into is the issue.” 

“If you mean Ganeida, I am going to do everything I can to get her off his back. She is _not_ getting Merlin.” 

“How do you know it’s not what he wants?” 

“What he w--” Arthur chokes on the insanity of the idea. “To get sacrificed? To be consumed by dark magic?” Arthur feels like kicking something. He rubs his face to take a moment to breathe. “Okay, let’s leave out the part of my having personal reasons to be against this idea. How can anyone be okay with granting a druid with dark magic Merlin’s power?" 

“You’re assuming she’s a druid,” Balinor says.

Arthur stops and stares at him. “She’s not?” 

“I don’t think it matters.” 

Arthur actually agrees. “Maybe not. Does it matter that even at level nine, the Department wasn’t able to baseline her?” 

He knows that he’s giving away classified information, but it’s neither here nor there at this point, since he’s sure Balinor himself possesses enough information to make the Department weep with envy. Just like Uther taught him long time ago -- information is a weapon, and he’d do just about anything today for the right equipment to level the Department itself to ground zero. Consequences be damned. 

“The Department has its limits.” 

Arthur doesn’t hear him anymore. He gets up and starts pacing, thinking out loud. 

“Two years ago, she was level nine,” he says. “She falls off the face of the earth, only to come back and claim who? Merlin! I cannot fathom what Uther was thinking when he granted her request. But it's... It just doesn’t make any sense! On top of it all, and that’s what I don’t understand the most, if Ganeida’s level of power -- as of two years ago, mind you -- is combined with Merlin’s power, do we even understand what kind of monster we are creating? On the side of _dark_ magic!” 

Arthur can’t stop pacing. He walks from one edge of the rug to the other in front of Balinor’s desk, basically talking to himself. Balinor doesn’t interrupt him. He seems to be in his own head as well, half listening. 

“We _need_ Merlin to keep the Balance. If we let this happen, there will be no Balance,” Arthur says, and although the idea is unfathomable, the next thought is the one that makes his throat tighten and his vision blur. “And Merlin will be gone forever.” 

Arthur stops in his tracks and looks at Balinor. “Sir, what is your interest in Merlin? What do you need from him?” 

“Nothing.” 

Arthur narrows his eyes, contesting it. “Not his magic?” 

“Merlin _is_ magic. He possesses an astonishingly rare gift that he’s been tossing around, and as a result put himself in incredible danger. Like you, I want him to live. He’ll manage the rest without me. Well, for the most part, as he does require some guidance, clearly.” Balinor’s eyes gleam under the heavy line of his thick brows. There’s a small fond smile hiding behind his beard. 

All Arthur hears is “Merlin” and “danger”. 

“Where is he?” Arthur pleads. 

“I’m not able to give you a specific location, but he's not far.” 

“So he’s...” Arthur’s voice is small, breaking. Hopeful. “He’s still around? It’s not too late?” 

“No, not yet. For now.” 

Arthur sighs with relief, because it’s one thing to rely on the old mark on your arm, and another to hear someone who knows what they're talking about confirm that the mark hasn’t been lying. Now he just needs to see it with his own eyes. “So, you’ll help me to fight off Ganeida?” he asks. 

Balinor doesn’t answer right away, and his expression changes quickly from hesitant to dark. 

Arthur’s heart sinks. “You won’t.” 

“I-- It’s not that simple for me. But we'll help you to find him.” 

“But that isn’t enough, is it? I have to stop the sacrifice. How? The girl’s been off the grid for too long. There’s no data on her.” 

“That’s according to the Department.” 

“And according to you? Please don’t tell me you’re just a poor guy from a poor family. Or that _it’s not that simple_.” 

Balinor smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “No escape from reality.” 

“Ironic, isn’t it?” Arthur says. “Impossible even for you, Dragonlord.” 

“I can see why he loves you,” Balinor says. 

“Who?” 

Balinor smiles again, and Arthur shakes his head. “So, are you saying Ganeida has spent the last two years perfecting her magic?” 

“We believe she shouldn’t be taken lightly.” 

“I already know that.” 

Arthur waits for a response, but it doesn’t come. 

He lets out an exasperated breath. He moves to stand by the edge of the desk, towering over Balinor, who's currently busy dusting off yet another tchotchke in his hand, and looks down at him. 

“You know,” Arthur says, “it’s interesting how you both -- your precious dragon and you -- have managed to dodge my every question and provide me with zero useful information.” 

Balinor raises his eyes at Arthur while his hand with the brush is still moving. Then it stops. His eyes widen, and the toy slips from his hand, but it doesn’t fall  -- it freezes mid-air a few inches above the table. 

“What’s going on?” Arthur wants to ask, and nothing comes out of his mouth. For a moment, everything in the room, including Balinor, is frozen in time, and then -- pfooohm! -- it blooms in vivid technicolor, and every single detail imprints into his mind, as if it were a high definition picture. But it’s quiet around him -- too quiet -- and he can’t move a muscle. Not even to take a breath. 

The next moment, Balinor blinks, and everything is back to being alive and moving; the tchotchke drops down with a clacking sound. 

“Fucking hell!” Arthur hears Gwaine exclams behind the door. 

Balinor makes a sound in his throat -- a brief, guttural call out -- and Arthur feels goosebumps break out across his skin. 

Kilgharrah bursts into the rooms with Gwaine right behind him. 

“You need to get them out of here,” Balinor says. 

“Sire,” Kilgharrah says, and Arthur doesn’t like his expression in the slightest. “I’m sorry. It’s too late.” 

“How far?” Balinor asks. 

Kilgharrah cocks his head as if listening for something and says, “Almost here.” 

With a nod, Balinor gets up. “Arthur, you have a choice and about fifteen seconds to make it. If you stay, you might get the answers to some of your questions.” 

“Then why would I leave?” 

“If you don’t, right now, it would be very challenging to keep you alive,” Balinor answers. “With two of you here, almost impossible.” 

Arthur only takes a split second to decide. “Get Gwaine out. I’ll take my chances.” 

Gwaine opens his mouth, his whole body in vehement protest against Arthur’s words. At the same time, Balinor claps his hands. Everything shifts. The walls in the room fold down like a house of cards, the light goes out, and when Arthur’s eyes adjust, they are in a dimly lit large parking structure, and Gwaine’s gone. 

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” Arthur asks. 

“Believe it or not, not knowing is your best advantage right now,” Balinor says. “How are you feeling?” 

Arthur listens to the silence around them -- not a screech of a tire, not a whirl of a elevator -- and surprisingly, there’s complete calamity in his mind. Last time he felt this way was after Merlin and he experimented with magic sex to the point of being so blissed out, Arthur didn’t want to think or move a muscle for hours. 

He checks himself over, finding no visible damage to his appearance, and takes a deep, testing breath. 

“Assuming I’m still alive, I’m great,” he makes an attempt to joke. Lame. 

“We intend to keep it that way. Just breathe, no freaking out.” 

“Wasn’t going to _,_ ” Arthur mutters. 

Kilgharrah makes a hissing noise Arthur’s already familiar with – the sound of him being more than annoyed. Arthur turns to make some semi-degrading comment about him sounding like a reptile again. Turns out, he is -- a very much upgraded version of a reptile, actually. If during their first encounter, Arthur had mistaken him for a lizard, now he has no doubt it’s a real dragon in front him. 

His appearance is a lot more pronounced, which also makes Arthur question the level of the realm they’re in. It’s all the same signs as the last time, but then his skin looked more like small, mosaic lines were thinly painted all over it, only faintly resembling scaling. Now it’s much darker and more prominent. Arthur’s sure if he were ever allowed to be close enough to the dragon to touch him in his current form, he’d feel the hard shell of each scale under his hand. 

There are more differences -- the dragon’s bigger, taller, and the neck is stretched up. His face, with the protruding jaw, is no longer of a man, and his mouth is full of teeth that look more like fangs. All... hundred of them? There are a lot of teeth, all of them showing when he opens his mouth. He’s still standing on his two, now-hinged, legs, but Arthur gets the distinct impression he’d be a lot more comfortable if he lowered himself to all fours. There are definitely four -- rather massive -- clawed _limbs_. Yet, there’s still something very human in Kilgharrah -- maybe it’s the intelligence in his eyes, or the grace with which he walks over to join his master. 

Arthur hears the sound of a motor approaching and turns to Balinor. “Are we expecting someone?” 

Both Balinor and the dragon scowl, and Balinor says, “Yes.”

“Anyone I know?” 

“At this point, I doubt it.” 

“Why?” Arthur checks for his disabler, although he has a feeling it won’t be useful on whoever is coming their way. His best bet is probably the dragon’s fiery, stinky breath and his claws, if he can even count on him as an ally. 

The dragon clicks something, which echoes in his head as, “You can thank your father for stuffing you with information about magic that’s completely useless.” Arthur flinches at the sound, not pleased that someone or something is messing with his head. Again. 

Balinor smiles in understanding. “I heard it’s not the most pleasant feeling.” 

“It’s not the same for you?”

“Not quite. I speak dragon tongue.”

“Right. The advantages of being a dragonlord.” 

“And the responsibilities,” Balinor adds. He stops smiling and turns on his heels.

A towncar brakes not far from them; the motor keeps running, but nothing else is happening. 

Kilgharrah crouches down, finally resting on his front limbs as well, and lowers his head almost to the ground, smoke puffing out of his nostrils. 

“Easy, Kil,” Balinor says in a soothing voice, then, louder, “You can come out, Nimueh. No one here doubts it’s you.”

xxxxxx

The door of the car opens. A long leg in elegant, black knee-high boot steps out, followed by the other. A woman comes out of the car, and the first thing Arthur notes is her bright-as-a-sky eyes and dark-cherry lips. Her pale skin is flawless, offset by the plum-colored long-sleeved dress hugging her body and showing all her curves in all the right places. When she smiles, he can’t help but feel dazzled by the charm of the two dimples on either side of her cheeks. 

“No thanks to your pets,” she says in a melodic, if not slightly irritable, voice. “I can never properly surprise you.” 

“Nonetheless, it’s nice to see you,” Balinor says. 

“Liar. If you had half the mind to see me,  you would’ve some time ago. I had to come uninvited, and even then almost missed you.” 

“I was busy,” Balinor offers halfheartedly. 

“With what? Conjuring up rainbows and unicorns?” She’s the only one who laughs at her own joke. 

Kilgharrah takes a heavy step forward, and the ground shakes a little under them. 

“Hello, pet,” she says. “Still working on growing those balls, I see. Still attached to your lord by your tongue up his arse,” she sing-songs. “Balinor, you lucky, lucky man.”  

Kilgharrah doesn’t make another move or sound, he just looks at her. The only indication of him being affected is the yellow rim in his eyes blooming wider, the pupil turning as thin as a needle. 

“You trained him well, Balinor, bravo” She claps slowly a few times. “Bra-vo.” 

“Did you come here to congratulate me on my job well done?” Balinor asks. Hard muscle jumps in his jaw, his eyes tight on her. 

“Not quite,” she says, smiling, and takes a step closer to them. 

Balinor jerks forward as well, half-blocking Arthur’s view.

It takes Arthur a moment to realize that he’s doing it intentionally, suggesting -- no, making clear -- his intent to protect Arthur. Arthur’s first instinct is to rebel; he’s no poor, hapless lamb here. But then, he can’t ignore the tightness in his chest, or the weakness in his knees that had started bothering him the moment the car appeared. He’s already figured out that it could be worse -- the artifact is his saving grace again, and the more he uses it, the easier it is for him to be in the realm, to stay longer. This is his longest time yet in the level they are in, which he imagines is above fourth -- or fifth even – and hell, he’s fascinated and almost giddy at the possibilities this knowledge promises. Merlin would be so, so proud of him 

Speaking of Merlin, and this woman, Nimueh. Who the hell is she? What answers does she have for him? 

Nimueh chooses this precise moment to pay Arthur some attention. 

“Well,” she says while her eyes scan over Arthur in a sharp sweep. She bites her lower lip with such a satisfied smile, Arthur makes plans to scrub himself all over in the shower first thing he gets home. “No, I think we both know why I’m here.” 

“You are not getting him.” Balinor and Kilgharrah step closer to each other, keeping Arthur behind them, and at first, Arthur thinks he’s talking about Merlin. 

He understands his mistake when Nimueh throws up her hand, palm facing them, and he’s propelled back and pinned to the column behind him. Balinor reacts immediately by doing the same towards Nimueh with a sharp, “Stop,” and Nimueh laughs. 

“Nothing proves my point better, does it?” she says. “ Fine. You’re right. This is tiring and not fun at all. Besides, I don’t need him. I’m getting what I want already.” 

Balinor scowls, and Arthur pushes himself off the pillar and takes a few tentative steps forward, testing his legs and his lungs. All important parts seem intact and in working condition; the pressure of the realm hasn’t gotten worse, so he walks to stand by Balinor’s side. Balinor glances at him from the corner of his eye, and Arthur gives him a defiant jut of his chin. He will not hide behind anyone’s back. 

“A feisty one, isn’t he?” Nimueh says. “Too bad there’s no use for him without his precious other half. And his precious other half is rather indisposed -- indefinitely, if I have a say in it, and I do.” 

“You only think you have a say, Nimueh.” 

“Please, Balinor. The game is over. And you know what’s the best part of it all?” She leans forward, her face inches away from Balinor’s. “I have _permission_ for it. You are the one who’s always clamored for playing by the rules. I followed them to the letter, and now you can’t stop me without starting a war.” 

Kilgharrah shifts, raising his torso up, and lets a thin stream of fire out of his mouth. Balinor doesn’t react. His full attention is on Nimueh, and they are both still in each other’s space. 

“You don’t want a war, do you, Balinor?” she coos. “Do you remember the last one? And how long it took for this earth to recover?” 

Balinor briefly closes his eyes. When he opens them, they blaze with gold. “I don’t think you want a war, either. It’s bad for your complexion.” 

Nimueh backs away a little. “Don’t you worry. Being a High Priestess of Old Religion, I can afford a little bit of a jostling now and then. In fact, I find it _invigorating_.” 

“What is she on about?” Arthur ventures to ask. He’s going to think later about the fact that he’s having an encounter with the members of the highest ranks in the magical community at once, and that not only hasn’t he seen them described in any of the books or journals offered at the Department, he’s never even heard of their names before today. 

“Oh, Arthur.” Nimueh turns her eyes to him again. “You really are the oblivious one. Why don’t we start by having proper introductions?” She offers him her hand, palm down, as if expecting him to kiss it. “I’m Nimueh Cara.” 

He nods to her without accepting her hand -- who knows what might happen if he touches her. Her slightly raised, well-contoured brow is the only indication she’s not impressed. He doesn’t care. 

“This is Balinor--” she offers next. 

“I already know who he is,” Arthur interrupts, not interested in continuing this farce, and more eager to move on to the important parts of the conversation. Like Merlin and Ganeida. 

“Actually, I don’t think you do. Not really. Has Balinor mentioned to you that he’s known as one of the oldest and most influential warlocks of the Old Religion of all times, along with me? Well, I'm a few years younger, but we have similar power, you see, except I position myself on the opposite side of the barricades.” She smiles ruefully. "And your father is appointed to play to our fiddle, just like his predecessor and the man before him. We call the shots here, Arthur, out of the shadows of the realm -- always have." 

Arthur tries to hide his shock by clenching his teeth and breathing slowly. He grips the artifact in his fist, feeling nausea slowly rolling up in his gut, and not sure how much longer he can handle it here. 

“And that’s not all, dear, not in the slightest.” Nimueh gleefully glances at Balinor, who stands rigid and tall beside her, his eyes brimming with golden fire. “You don’t mind, my dear old friend, do you?” 

Balinor doesn’t respond. 

Nimueh walks to the car and opens the door. “Ganeida, sweetheart, there's someone I want you to meet.” 

The door of the car opens wider, and Arthur’s world goes askew again. 

xxxxxx


	7. Chapter 7

 

xxxxx 

Ganeida is nothing like Arthur expected. 

If he didn’t know of her minacious plans of grandiose proportions concerning Merlin, his magic and his life, he’d say she’s shy. He’d also say she doesn’t belong to the realm. Not to this one, where two powerful sorcerers seem to be looking to settle an old score. 

Arthur watches as the tall, gawky girl in a shapeless dress and beat-up boots, all elbows and knees, unfolds herself and slinks out of the car. She follows Nimueh, keeping her eyes on the ground. Her movements are a bit sluggish but measured, her face drawn when she stops as soon as Nimueh does and folds her hands one over the other, just below her belly. She doesn’t look like she wants to be here, and Arthur can’t help the feeling rising in his chest that his job here is not to fight her, but to _protec_ t her. Arthur has nothing on Gwaine’s empathic abilities, but even he can sense how desperately lost this girl is.

It takes a few deep breaths and a quick pep talk inside his head for Arthur to convince himself that in reality, Ganeida is nothing of the demure, helpless sort. She is a witch, level nine or higher, and whatever he’s thinking or feeling is pure manipulation of his senses. Witches do that. 

Arthur stares heavily at the girl while she assumes her spot next to Nimueh, stilling in a quiet pose of supplication, as if waiting for her next command. Arthur’s so consumed with her, he doesn’t notice right away that Balinor isn’t still. He isn’t quiet, either. Balinor’s making small choking sounds, as if trying to contain a cry, and he’s trembling. His body’s rigid, yet it’s vibrating from a strain, as if it’s taking a huge effort for him not to  move. His eyes are glued to Ganeida.  

Nimueh vibrates too, but her energy is different. If anything, she appears to be excited, almost giddy. 

“Ganeida,” she finally speaks up and reaches to the girl, brushing her hair away from her face. “Look at me, sweetheart. It’s okay.” She gently nudges her chin.

Ganeida slowly raises her head; her mouth is a bit slacked and her eyes are hooded when she looks at Nimueh. 

“There, my darling, no one is going to hurt you. I’m here. I won’t let anyone upset you.”

Ganeida nods, shifting from one foot to the other.

“Do you know who these people are?” Nimueh asks. 

Ganeida hasn't looked at any of them once; even the sight of the dragon hasn't brought a spark of emotion to her face. There's no curiosity, no fear, no interest. She slowly shakes her head no. 

Balinor makes another small sound in his throat. The dragon steps closer, his side almost touching his master’s. 

“Balinor, do you have anything to say to this girl?” Nimueh asks. 

He looks at Ganeida, his expression is of pain and something else Arthur can’t read, but none of it is of a person who’s happy to see another.

The dragon clicks something, and Arthur hears, “You play dirty, Nimueh. You will burn in hell for this." 

Nimueh smiles. “You, my dear Kilgharrah, are going there first. Mark my words.” 

“So, Balinor, this is your chance. Yes or no?” she asks again. Her eyes shine with gold for a brief moment and Balinor hisses through clenched teeth. “I never took you for a coward. Even then, twenty-three years ago, when you...” 

Balinor’s eyes narrow. "It’s not for you to judge."

“Yes it is,” Nimueh bites out. “You can keep your head in a sand, but it’s happeneing. You can’t avoid this. It’s not in your power, you understand?” 

Balinor doesn’t respond. 

“You do, my old friend, we both know what’s going to happen. You just don’t want to accept it, but you will.”  


Balinor glances on Ganeida and shakes his head. “What is it that you want, Nimueh?” he asks. 

Nimueh smiles. “For Ganeida to know the truth,” she says, brushing her hand over Ganeida’s shoulder. “This girl deserves the truth.” 

“That’s why you fed her lies all this time?” the dragon clicks. 

“How would you know what I taught her?” Nimueh retorts. She turns to the girl again. “Ganeida, tell me, sweetheart, do you like your home?”

Balinor flinches, but again, doesn’t utter a word. 

Ganeida’s voice is quiet but steady. “Yes.” 

“Would you like to go live somewhere else?” Nimueh asks softly. 

Ganeida’s face scrunches up; she moves her unfocused eyes somewhere behind Nimueh’s shoulder. “I have to go?” 

“Oh, sweetling, I’m happy I have you in my life, but wouldn’t you want to live with your mom?” 

The way Nimueh speaks with Ganeida as if she incapacitated makes Arthur cringe. 

Ganeida bites her lip and shakes her head. 

“Do you know where your mom lives?” Nimueh persists. 

“In a ward.” 

“That’s right. And do you want to be in a ward again?”  

Ganeida blinks several times. “No, please.” 

“Never, child. I will never give you away. You are not an experiment.” 

The relief on Ganieda’s face is so immense, Arthur wants to punch Nimueh out. He makes a move, and Nimueh stills him with a, “Tsk.” 

“But you can visit your mom, just like you've been doing. That makes you happy, doesn’t it?” 

Arthur’s mind whirls. He turns to Balinor, who looks like he’s about to go on a killing spree; Arthur wouldn’t mind joining him. 

“Balinor, we need to talk. You understand this now, don’t you?” Nimueh asks, and Balinor glares at her, although the slight hitch in his shoulders tells Arthur that Balinor isn’t going to argue. 

“Let’s close the realm. I’m not going to have the rest of the conversation here.” 

“And why is that?” the dragon asks. 

“You know why. There are ears everywhere.” 

The dragon huffs, Nimueh clicks her fingers in a gesture that’s nothing but a show-off, and Arthur stumbles out of the realm. Alone. 

He spins around, not believing his eyes. They couldn’t do that to him. They couldn’t just throw him out without actually clearing up all the air. _What the fucking fuck?_  

The pain in his head is sudden and excruciating. 

“Gwaine,” Arthur groans, pressing the heels of his palms to his temples. “Where the hell are you?” 

He tries not to worry when Gwaine doesn’t show up in the next one, two, three minutes. The pain in his head doesn’t go away either, and he’s pretty sure it’s Nimueh’s work. He wants it to stop. Now. _Now_ , goddammit. 

Arthur pulls his phone from his pocket, still pressing the heel of his free hand to his temple, and dials the number. The answer comes instantly, and Arthur groans out, “Leon. Corner of Second and Swan.” 

“On my way.” 

“Gwaine?” 

“Not with you?” Leon doesn’t let his voice show his worry, but Arthur knows him well enough to recognize it anyway. 

“We’ve been pushed out, separately.” 

“You safe?” 

“Fuck if I know.” Arthur groans again. 

“Be there soon. Hang on, Arthur.” 

Arthur hangs on. It takes ten minutes with no sign or response from Gwaine before Leon arrives. Another five, and the pain is nothing but a dull throb in his temples. Thank fuck for Leon and his magic. 

“What now?” Leon asks. 

“We are going back.” 

“I don’t think so, princess,” Gwaine announces behind Arthur, so close that Arthur almost jumps out of his skin. 

He twists around with a yelp and punches him in the shoulder. “You asshole, Gwaine! Where were you?” 

“Checking the area.” 

“You should’ve checked in with _me,_ twenty minutes ago,” Arthur admonishes him. 

“What, the best defense is offense?” Gwaine scoffs. “You had me thrown out, and you then thought I’d just leave you there and go home to take a nap?” Gwaine raises his voice. “My phone's dead. I was checking the area because I couldn’t open the realm again, no matter what I tried. And not just around the building, I’ve scanned the area in at least three-mile radius.  It was a dead zone here.” 

“You made a three-mile round?” Arthur rubs his arm. “Exactly how long was I in for?” 

“Two hours,” Gwaine answers. “Give or take ten minutes.” 

“Two hours?” It didn’t feel more than maybe twenty minutes to Arthur, and then he smiles. Really smiles. 

“Oh no,” Gwaine says. “Oh fuck no, Arthur. It doesn’t mean anything.” He looks down at the pendant Arthur still has wrapped around his wrist. 

“Oh yes, it does.” Arthur’s grin is so bright, it could light a candle. “It means a ton of fucking amazing stuff. Whoever gave this to me knew what they were doing. This is my golden trident!” 

Both his friends respond with an incredulous stare. 

Arthur doesn’t care. “Is it still blocked?” he asks, practically bouncing on his feet, thanks to the boost from Leon’s healing session. 

Gwaine makes an impassive face. 

“I take it as a no. Excellent, I'm going back. I'll explain everything later.” 

Gwaine and Leon look at each other. 

“Man,” Gwaine says. 

“What now?” Arthur asks, unwrapping the choker from his hand. He wants to kiss it now, it’s been doing so well at who-knows-what realm level in the past few hours. “Help me put it on.” He turns to Leon. 

Leon doesn’t move.   

“Leon?” 

They must be joking. He turns to Gwaine, who gives him a blank face. Bastard. 

“I found Ganeida! You guys need to bring me back there. Now!” 

“Nope,” Gwaine says. “One, we don’t know where your ‘there’ is. Two, even if we find it, I can bet my favorite ass cheek of yours no one is waiting for us there. And three, if you go in again now, you won’t make it through the day. Not that I care about _you_ that much, but you know Gaius, he’d quarter me.”  

“Bullshit!” Arthur gets in Gwaine’s face. “I need to go back! Balinor could still be there. I’ll drag his ass to the Department if I have to!” 

“Not tonight.” Gwaine doesn’t back down even an inch, the wanker. "As you know, it’s our duty to protect our superior. Even when he’s being a complete and utter bastard.” 

He is, Arthur knows it. Gwaine’s right about this --  Arthur continues being careless, even selfish.

“So, princess, tomorrow you’ll tell us all about your little rendezvous with the dragon and his dom, but tonight is all about your beauty rest, even if I have to knock you out and drag you home by your precious jewels.” 

Arthur sighs, resigning. “Been knocked around enough already, thank you very much. I’m getting home on my own.” 

“That’s my girl.” Gwaine smiles, and Leon snorts. 

"And we're keeping this until tomorrow." Leon snatches the choker from Arthur's hands. 

“I don’t even know why I'm still friends with you,” Arthur complains, eyeing Leon stuffing the artifact away into the pocket hidden inside his jacket, but his heart is not in it.   

“Because we're the only ones who can put up with you,” Gwaine says. 

Deep down, Arthur has to agree that it’s probably true.

 

xxxxx 

Leon and Gwaine don’t fuss over Arthur; they simply stuff him inside Leon's car. There's a soft murmur questioning something about dragons as they take off, and a hiss, "Later." Arthur is so out of it, by the time they arrive to his building, he doesn’t protest having both his arms over his friends’ shoulders, being loaded into the lift and then almost carried into the apartment. 

“Careful,” he mumbles, “tracking wards.” But his words are slurred and no one pays attention. 

He doesn’t even have the energy to roll his eyes at his subordinates, but when Gwaine tries to walk him to the bathroom, Arthur shoves a sharp elbow under his ribs and orders them both to get out. To make sure they get the message, he clumsily pulls one shoe off and throws it at... someone. It doesn’t matter because he misses anyway, but both his friends clear out of his place after that, and then it’s finally quiet. Arthur turns on the TV for background noise. 

Ever since Merlin left, Arthur hates the quiet. It amplifies how really alone he is; there’s really not much going on for him outside of his job, occasional pub visits, and football practices on Saturday afternoons. Some life. 

This is the last thought Arthur has as his head hits the pillow. 

He wakes up with a start and checks the clock. Five a.m. He slept for eleven hours. Eleven! Fucking Gwaine and his empathy. He is going to kill him for this. Arthur takes a quick cold shower – the best remedy for clearing off any lingering memories of nightmares and sexual frustration -- and there he goes again, following his usual routine. 

He ignores Gwaine’s call, although there are certainly pressing matters to discuss. Such as that Ganeida isn’t acting of her own volition and he’s positive she was either drugged or enchanted the night before, and that she isn’t the one who’s the mastermind behind the request for the ritual. Ganeida’s power plus Merlin’s power minus their will. What’s the bottom line? Blind magic of infinite strength possessed by Nimueh, who is already a High Priestess. Lovely. 

Yes, he definitely has pressing matters to discuss with his partner, but Gwaine’s magic has been setting Arthur’s teeth on edge increasingly lately. Fuck, they have to do something about that, because it’s spiraling downward fast, and Arthur cannot -- will not --lose another friend. 

Leon texts when Arthur is already walking down to the underground station. 

 _On your way?_  

 _Thirty minutes. Why?_  

_When you arrive don’t come in, I'll be outside._

Arthur taps his fingers against his thigh and jiggles his leg all the way to their quarters. 

“Just don't freak out, Arthur, yeah?” Leon starts as soon as Arthur walks up to him at the corner of the Municipalis building. 

Arthur doesn’t like this preamble. Knowing extremely measured, level-headed Leon, it must be something explosive. 

"The artifact, please," Arthur says. He kind of feels attached to it now, and something eases inside him as soon as it makes it back into his pocket.

“So, what is it?”  he asks.

Leon stares at him for a few moments. 

“I think it’s better if we go for some coffee.” 

All right, Arthur can take a hint. “Sure. Do I need to grab anything from my desk before we go?” 

Arthur asks because he’s prepared for a situation when he might be leaving the Department and never coming back. 

Leon shakes his head. “No. No need yet.” 

They walk away from the Municipalis, cross the street, make it around the playground full of yelling kids and their yelling mothers, and through the park with blooming flowers and trees, all in complete silence. 

Then Leon gives him a cursory glance and asks, skipping all the chit-chat, “What do you know about the sacrifice rituals?” 

Arthur sucks in a surprised breath. “Leon.” He grimaces. 

“I know, but we haven't been told the entire truth,” Leon says. 

“Is it worse than what we already know?” he asks. 

“A lot worse,” Leon answers quietly, 

Arthur feels as if he’s been doused with cold water. On instinct, he brings his hand to the crease of his elbow, touching the mark. Even through the layers of clothes, it responds by pulsing under his touch -- warm, persistent, and intact with his blood whooshing in his ears. 

“Merlin,” he says. 

Leon nods. “And you.” 

“Me?” Arthur stops mid-stride.  “What about me?” 

“Want to sit down?” Leon gestures to the bench at the end of the alley. 

Arthur quickly sits down and looks at Leon expectantly. “What about me, Leon?” 

Leon sits next to him, runs his hand through his hair, then turns to Arthur. “I found something this morning. Well...” He pauses. “Morgana helped me to find something this morning.” 

Leon looks away and then back at Arthur, as if gauging his reaction, and Arthur shrugs. He's over it, and it’s really none of his business, is it? 

“When was the last time you saw Merlin?" Leon asks. 

When? 

Whenever he turns on the water and touches the wall in their shower, whenever he opens the refrigerator covered in magnets from all the places they visited together, whenever he walks by the stand on the way to the underground station and sees Merlin's favorite soda, whenever he spots someone dark-haired, tall, and wiry in the crowd. 

Whenever he closes his eyes. 

“One year, one month, and six days ago,” Arthur says. 

“Even longer for me,” Leon muses after a few moments of silence. "What?" He throws his hands up in defense when Arthur gives him a sharp look. "You never bring it up. In fact, you forbid us." 

“I don’t--” 

“Really, Arthur, you want to go there?” 

"Fine, fine..." Arthur gestures for Leon to stop. 

“Yeah, all right." Leon clears his throat. "So, I’ve done some more digging..." 

Arthur nods. "So have I. What did you find?"

“I’ve gone through Merlin’s records, trying to see if it was his choice to drop out of the user database or if his license to practice has been revoked for some reason. You know what I found?" 

"Nothing," Arthur says. "No flags in the system, and aside from the change from his magic status to none, there’s been absolutely no activity on his record for the past almost... fourteen  months." 

"You didn't find it strange?" 

“Is there anything normal in this whole situation? We both know he's always been plenty active. He had monthly workshops for teen kids with magic; he volunteered at the local shelter. I don't see him stopping just because we split up,'' Arthur says, grimacing. ''His first publication was due in a month. I never saw it in print, though." Not that he looked and looked for it. 

“So, yeah, someone made sure there's zero traction on Merlin. Or maybe it was Merlin himself.'' Leon glances  at Arthur. ''That made me think.” 

“Yes?” 

“There’s only one person Merlin cared enough about to do stupid, irresponsible things for.” Leon looks at Arthur again. 

“Yeah, when we were practically kids, maybe,” Arthur says, not trying to hide the deep nostalgia ringing in his voice. 

“Well, some of it never changed,” Leon says fondly. “He was, no doubt, completely mad about you. Always.” 

“Don’t, Leon.” Arthur closes his eyes. 

“I went into your records next.” 

Arthur snaps his eyes open and sits up straighter. 

“Oh, no worries, plenty activity, but it’s disgustingly clean. No wonder Gwaine calls you a boring tit. Seriously, man, you could at least have an act of one indecency on your record. To spice it up.” 

Arthur smiles. If they only knew about his and Merlin’s antics back in the day. His father would probably have a stroke. 

The smile slides off Arthur’s face. “Uther… What did he do this time?” 

“Fuck,” Leon mutters and looks at Arthur with such sympathy, Arthur wants to strangle him. He doesn’t need it! 

“So, yes I’ve gone into Uther’s records.” 

Arthur stares at Leon in disbelief. 

“What?” Leon says. “Merlin was my friend, too, you know. And I was right... Breathe, Arthur.” 

“I'm breathing! Why does everyone keep saying that?” Arthur throws his hands in the air. “I’m not a schoolgirl, just get on with it!” 

“All right. So, you know, rituals... It turns out Merlin himself had placed requests before. Four times, to be precise. He was persistent. And Uther had rejected the first three, but not the fourth.” 

“Wait. Requests? What k... Oh.”  That couldn’t be possible. Merlin would never... 

“It’s not what you’re thinking.” Leon places his hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “Not even close.” 

“Explain, then.” Arthur braces himself. 

“The sacrifice ritual is really just a cover. I mean, they do happen, and it’s all legit and according to the rules of Old Religion. But it was not what Merlin was after.”

Arthur has a hard time unclenching his teeth. “Go on.” 

“Once in a lifetime, regardless of the magic you practice, you have the right to perform a transfer of your power to your mate or someone you have a special bond with,” Leon explains. “It’s sort of like a sacrifice, but not entirely. It’s a dangerous and strenuous exercise for all parties involved, and it requires control and skill to regulate how much you want to share with your partner. Eventually the power comes back in full, if not stronger. The realm appreciates the sharing. You know it feeds on magic, and this is the ultimate feast. So, if you do it right, once you fulfill the call of magic, it's even possible to switch sides, and you live.” 

Arthur takes a long time to process what he’s just heard. “Legal switch? Are you saying a user of good magic can be turned into a dark one?” he asks. 

“And vice versa.” 

“Permitted by the Department?” 

“Absolutely legal. Permitted by your father dearest, personally.” 

“And Merlin had requested giving up his power? For whom?” The spike of jealousy that surges through Arthur is so vicious, he feels nauseous. 

“Are you that daft, Arthur? He wanted you! Only you.” 

Arthur blinks several times. Maybe he _is_ daft, after all. “But I have no magic.” 

Leon smiles; sad creases form around his eyes. “Here’s the kicker for you. The request between two magic users cannot be approved without their consent. Both parties must agree to fulfill the call -- and once of age, of course, or with parental or guardian approval. But if a magic user wants to share their power with a non-magic user, the consent is not needed. If you have no magic and someone with magic wants you, you’re just... kind of… I don’t know... given away?” 

Arthur understands what Leon’s thinking, feeling exactly the same. The Department’s gone too far, Uther’s gone too far. No consent? Arthur can think of some examples, and they absolutely disgust him. With special permission, a magic user can transfer some magic into who knows what and create a monster, or under the mating excuse, magic can be shared with an individual who never wanted any of the power or abilities. Arthur can even predict what the Department has to say in those cases -- that scientific research for supernatural abilities is important, or that all types of species of magic need protection and procreation  -- but all of it is to keep a fucking Balance in check.

“I wouldn’t blame your father for this, Arthur,” Leon murmurs. “None of it is his idea. He just follows through, just like it’s been agreed. The magic community wanted an unbiased mediator for the sake of the Balance. The Department _helps_. Your father does come on too strong sometimes, but considering the rationale behind this arrangement... the alternative was an imminent loss of magic, followed by complete chaos. The Department's work is necessary. I wouldn't be here otherwise, and neither would be Gwaine.” 

"Morgana isn't. She chose not to." 

Leon gives Arthur a patient smile. "Have you ever thought how unfair it is that my magic is called 'good', and Morgana's 'dark'? We are not that much different, you know. Good magic can cause so much damage, the realm wouldn't stand a chance." 

Arthur temporarily loses his speech. 

"Astonishing, isn't it?" Leon doesn’t smile anymore. "Where there's no equality, there's no true Balance. Morgana would sacrifice her soul if it helps one sorcerer to be happy." 

So, it’s official. Leon’s in love. Arthur grins. 

Leon rolls his eyes. “Shut up.” 

“I didn’t say anything.” 

“You didn’t have to.” 

“When’s the wedding?” 

A smile slides off Leon’s face, and Arthur wants to stab himself in the eye. 

"Leon, this ritual. Is this something you and Morgana... Would you...?" 

Judging by the hard set of Leon's jaw, this topic has come up in their conversation without a mutual agreement. 

“Nothing is impossible, brother,” he tells Leon and squeezes his shoulder. 

“Prove it.” 

Arthur might as well.

He spends some time staring at the ground and compartmentalizing the information. “I don’t know, Leon. It still feels wrong. No consent?”

“I suspect it’s the main reason Merlin was hesitant to tell you about his requests. He probably knew you’d be against it.” 

“Damn straight. I deserve a choice.” 

“But if you think about it. I mean in general,” Leon says. “Assume you have magic, and someone you love is sick. Assume your magic can save them, you just have to give up some of your powers, sort of sacrifice a bit of yourself, in order to save a person you love. Would you do it? If it were your mate? If it were your _child_?” 

Oh. If it’s presented _that_ way... 

The face of that guy Mordred floats in Arthur’s mind’s eye, and his plea, “I love Kara. She’s sick...” 

It all makes sense now. 

“Arthur, this is not a bad thing, but it can be turned into something bad. The Department watches for that.” 

Considering what Arthur knows now, he highly doubts it. Hidden agendas are what Department is notorious for. 

Arthur thinks about it. “I’m not sick. Why would Merlin ever want to share his powers with me?” 

“Aside from the obvious?” Leon shrugs. “I don’t know.” 

“Hell, Leon. And my father allowed it?" 

“Your father knew the intent and the stakes, yes. He was probably the only one who knew the real reason.” 

 _And Merlin._  

"Well, whatever that reason was, it expired, since Merlin changed his mind and walked away." 

"Maybe he didn't. We don't know what happened." 

“Someone must know! And--” Arthur's heart stutters. “Ganeida...  She’s dark magic. If her request isn’t to consume his power... You think she wants to turn Merlin to dark magic?” 

“I don't see the point, but anything is possible.” 

“But he’d never let her. Would he?” 

“There’s one more thing you need to know -- one more condition of this ritual. When a magic user requests to share his power with another sorcerer, the requestor has to be a lot stronger than the spoken for. A lot stronger. Otherwise the Department rejects it. It has to be truly off-balance in order to be approved.” 

Arthur smiles. “Then no way Merlin would qualify for this shit. We know that Ganeida is sickly strong, but Merlin's power has always been off the scale.” 

“Is that why he’s no longer in the Department’s database?” 

So, Leon is right -- it’s worse. Much, much worse. 

Arthur presses his fingers into his temples, looking down at his feet, and shakes his head slowly. “What the hell is going on, Leon?”

 

  
xxxxx 

 


	8. Chapter 8

 

 

 

 

xxxxx

Arthur’s phone ringing in the middle of the day with Catrina’s number flashing on the display can mean only one thing -- Uther finally found the time to see him. 

“I’m being summoned,” Arthur says, showing Leon the screen. 

Leon nods and stands up. “Gonna be all right?” he asks. “With your father being... you know...” He waves vaguely. 

“Yeah, Uther’s track record as a parent hasn’t been inspiring, exactly. Sometimes I wonder why he’s such a hard-ass with people who care about him.” 

“From what I have observed over the years, the way he treats you is actually his version of love. By an emotionally constipated person,” Leon muses, and glances at Arthur. “Sorry.” 

Arthur shrugs. “It’s all right, I guess. He reminds me almost every day what kind of a person I don’t want to be. I don’t want to turn into him.” 

“Then you won't. For what it’s worth, I’m proud to be your friend.” Leon extends his arm, and Arthur grabs it just below the elbow and shakes it in an unspoken oath. 

“Ready?” Leon asks. 

“Absolutely.” 

 

 

 

 

xxxxx

Catrina fiddles with the lower drawer of her desk and perks up at the sight of Arthur. 

“Arthur, where were you? He doesn’t like to wait,” she says, sitting up and straightening her hair. 

“I’m not at his beck and call.” 

“You are, as long as you report to him. You do remember that part, don’t you?” 

“And he does remember,” Arthur says through his clenched teeth, “that my line of work does not revolve around his majesty every hour of the day. Lucky me for the opportunity to be blessed with his presence.” 

“Are you still upset about the other day?” Catrina sighs. “Arthur, he really was b--” 

“Nope, not upset. Now, please, tell him I’m here.” 

“You can go in. He’s expecting you. Would you like anything?” 

“No, thanks.” 

For the longest time, Arthur had seriously wondered if Uther was hitting the youth potions. Uther’s always looked the same -- blond brushed-back hair, barely touched by grey; inquisitive, piercing eyes; stubborn set to his jaw; straight, broad line to his shoulders; and not an ounce of fat on his bones. He was the epitome of a strong leader in Arthur’s eyes -- always together, always focused, sharp and unwavering in his responses. The only time the harsh lines of his face would smooth out was when he talked about Arthur’s mother. Ygraine was the apple of his eye. There was not a single memory of her ever painted in a negative light. Ygraine could never, had never done anything wrong in his recollections, and Uther made sure Arthur knew he could not compete for this kind of affection.    

Today, as Arthur makes it closer to Uther’s desk, he doesn’t see a man he's used to. Whatever  burdens he carries are settled deep in the lines around his mouth and in a slight hunch of his back. There are glasses perched on the tip of Uther’s nose; Arthur has no idea when he started wearing glasses. Uther hasn’t spoken about Ygraine in a long time, and Arthur can’t recall the last time he heard his father laugh. 

Arthur clears his throat louder than necessary, making his presence known, and waits for Uther to acknowledge him, which he doesn't -- the games this man plays, even with his own son... Even when there’s no need for any pretense between them, as they both know where they stand and it will never change. 

Arthur takes a seat, not waiting for an invitation. 

Uther presses the button on the phone on his desk -- they still use those in the Municipalis. Really. “Catrina, please have the car out in fifteen minutes.” 

“Of course, sir.” 

Uther might as well have placed an egg timer on the table, but Arthur has a different idea; he wanted to come here to talk, so he will fucking talk. 

He picks up a newspaper sitting on the corner of the desk, unfolds it on his lap and says, “Remember that one and only trip we had together, the fishing one? I was about eleven? We woke up really, really early, because you said that fish doesn’t bite for lazy bones, and we drove half a day to reach the seaside.” 

Uther snaps surprised eyes to Arthur. “What?” 

“The trip. The one I waited on for months and months. The one when you showed me how to catch crab. With really, really bad chicken as bait. I wondered why the car stunk so much, and you said that sometimes in order to catch something really worthy, you need to get your hands dirty, and I shouldn’t fixate on small things like smelly trunks. We caught thirty-seven crabs that evening. They really liked the chicken, didn’t they? Kept coming and coming into that net.” 

Uther closes and pushes aside a folder with the files he was reading, a small, fond smile appearing on his face. 

“At some point,” Arthur continues, “we had to stop -- you said we had to, because thirty-seven were plenty. Even if we invited Gwaine, Leon, Catrina and the entire neighborhood to eat all that crab. We only took as much as we could carry in the buckets to the car. I wasn’t happy, and you gave me the whole spiel about greed, and balancing your needs, and God knows what else. I lost you at ‘throw the rest of the crabs back into the water’.” 

Uther nods. “You didn’t think it was fair. I had to drag you away, along with all the gear.” 

“Well, I didn’t think I was done.” 

“And I thought we were. We still had a long drive back, all our buckets were full, and your hands were red and bitten.” 

“Too sweaty in gloves.” 

Uther smiles. “Being bitten by crabs was better.” 

Arthur nods. “You let me learn my lesson. But you know, next evening, when we did end up inviting everyone we knew over to finish all that crab before it went bad, was the best evening of my life. Well, as a kid, at least.” 

Uther’s wistful face answers all Arthur’s questions from that time.   

“And then,” Arthur said, no longer smiling, “one by one, you started taking things away from me. My room with a private bathroom. I got a walk-through guest room instead.” 

“You spent too much time locked in there.” 

“My participation in communities I cared about.” 

“Like the gay youth program? Just because you decided you were gay, it didn’t mean it was a good idea to flaunt your lifestyle in front of everyone. That kind of limelight was unnecessary.” 

“Gwaine, Leon.” 

“I wasn’t trying--” 

Arthur gives him a sharp look. “You _certainly_ tried.” 

“They weren’t good for you,” Uther hedges. 

“Because they had magic.” 

Uther takes off his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose. “Because I couldn’t trust them.” 

“Because they had magic,” Arthur repeats. 

Uther throws his glasses on the table. “I was the one _telling_ you about magic. I gave you this job!” 

Arthur ignores Uther’s outburst and says softly, “And Merlin. You never trusted Merlin.” 

Uther’s expression turns into a mask; his mouth presses into a thin, harsh line. 

“And you know,” Arthur continues, “for a person who never trusted sorcerers, you showed an admirably fantastic sign of trust by offering your son to one as a giveaway.” 

Uther’s mouth twitches, and Arthur places his hands on the edge of the desk and leans forward a bit. “Or was I just like that spoiled chicken?” he whispers. 

"Arthur--" 

“Didn’t work, I hear,” Arthur says bitterly. “Merlin left anyway. What, I wasn’t good enough of bait after all?” 

“Stop.” Uther stare is heavy from under his brows. 

“Not until you tell me what made you change your mind. Why did you agree? What was the deal?” 

Uther reaches out, but Arthur’s faster. He stops him by swiping the phone and everything in its way off the desk to the floor. 

“No.” He towers over Uther, who stares up at him. “Tell me now.” 

“There was no deal,” Uther says calmly. 

“Right.” 

Uther runs a hand over his face. “Not in the sense you think. But there was a promise.” 

“Can’t wait to hear it.” 

Uther doesn’t look like he can’t wait to share it, but Arthur doesn’t give an inch, burning his stare into his forehead, so Uther says, “He swore to me on his life that he’d protect yours. He said the ritual was the only way, and I believed him.” 

“The only way?” 

“Your magic boyfriend was persistent about it.” 

“ _Not_. My boyfriend.” Arthur has to close his eyes and breathe in and out a few times. He blindly searches for the chair behind him and sinks into it again. 

“After I rejected his request the third time, he actually glued Catrina to her chair with magic, in the light of the day, here in the Municipalis -- the audacity of that boy -- and barged into my office in the middle of the conference,” Uther says. “Called me a demented, self-centric prick, by the way, in front of the Mercian delegation.”   

“You’ve been called worse,” Arthur points out, finding a small amount of pleasure in the story. Merlin had always had a lot of spunk. 

“True.” Uther is almost smiling. “He was going to do it anyway, son. If I didn’t let him, he would’ve done it on his own, and then it would've been illegal and on your record. You could've lost everything just for the involvement.” 

“But why? Why Merlin wanted the ritual so bad?” 

“He insisted that your life was in danger. I didn't want to believe him, but then Morgana came to me and said she had a vision."

"What vision?" 

Uther pauses before speaking again. "A young druid taking your life." He parts with his words reluctantly. 

“Not all her visions come true.” 

Uther dropped his eyes to his hands on the table. 

“They do every single time where I'm concerned,” he says quietly. 

“So, it’s about you, after all?” Arthur snaps.

Uther lifts his head, looking Arthur square in the eyes. “Yes, when I’m the reason your life is in danger. The druid wouldn’t go after you because of you, he’d go after you to hurt _me_. He’d end _you_ to end _me_.”

“Do you know who he is?” Arthur asks. 

Uther shakes his head. “Someone who disagrees with justice and order, I would assume. It has to be someone I prosecuted in the past.

“Do you understand now why I had to agree? Merlin promised to fill you with enough magic to fight the strongest druid known among sorcerers.” 

“Well, that obviously didn’t happen,” Arthur mutters. 

“No, it didn’t.” Uther sighs. “We all failed.” 

“Well, I’m still here, still empty as a drum, but as it stands, perfectly capable of surviving without Merlin.” 

“I wouldn’t be so hasty, Arthur. It’s not over. I don’t think you can defeat the premonition without magic.” 

Arthur opens his mouth, then closes, then opens it again. “Have you gone mad?” 

“Watch your mouth, son.” 

Arthur ignores the familiar irritation in his father's voice. “Since when do you rely on magic for anything in your life?” 

Uther’s expression is grim when he says, “Since the moment you were conceived.” 

Arthur snorts. “Yeah, yeah, I am such a fucking miracle, it’s _magic_ ,” Arthur jives his hands,“I was even born.” 

“It’s actually not far from the truth.” 

“All right.” Arthur gets up. “I’ve had enough of the walk down the memory lane. I don’t care what kind of agreement you made with Merlin. Knowing Merlin’s penchant to overlook the fine print, he was probably left with barely any clothes on his back after you were done with him, but I swear to you if you did something to him, if you made him leave me, I will never forgive you.” 

Uther just looks at him with an unreadable expression on his face. 

Oh, fuck. 

“Did you make him leave?” Arthur asks, feeling the blood draining from his face. 

“Arthur, you’re smart enough, think about it. Why would I give such permission and then make him leave?” 

“Then why did he?” Arthur shouts. 

“Only Merlin can answer that.” 

“You’re fucking joking.” Arthur’s this close to throwing things out the window. “I don’t even know where he is! Which, dammit, Father, brings me to another very pressing issue. Why in the hell did you give permission to Ganeida Myrddyn for a ritual?” 

“You know about that already.” Uther doesn’t look dismayed. 

“No thanks to you,” Arthur hisses. “You take that permission back, you hear me? Take it back and never, ever go near Merlin again.” 

“You are over your head, son. The sooner you understand it, the better.” 

“I swear, Father--” 

“There are bigger issues at stake now! My job is to protect my people -- and you. I will keep you safe. If not with Merlin, then with Ganeida Myrddyn's help.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

Uther sighs and leans back in his chair. “Do you know why I allowed you to work for the Department?” 

“Because I asked you to? Because I'm the best you got? Because you want to keep your precious crown in the family?” 

“Because it’s easier to keep an eye on you.”

“At least you admit it,” Arthur spits out. 

“Foolish child. I’m still your father. I’m still responsible for you. Look at you. Your ex is in danger and you are all over this case, storming my office like a castle, ready to risk your head. And for whom? For the boy who hurt you.” 

Arthur gets up and walks to the window. “It doesn’t matter. He was my best friend, and I can’t bear to lose him.” 

“And you are my son.” 

Arthur turns to face Uther again. “Your decision is wrong,” Arthur says. “You don’t know what you’re doing, Father. Ganeida is--” 

"I know who Ganeida is. She’s an orphan who inherited a weak mind and more supernatural power than she can handle. But we will handle her, as well as Merlin. I don’t expect you to understand it, but it’s in your best interest to let things take their course." Uther says all this in that dry, patronizing tone Arthur hates so much.

"Sir--" Catrina finds the most inconvenient time to open the door. “Sir, your car is here.”

“Not yet, Catrina!” Arthur barks, but Uther’s already getting up. 

“We're done for now,” Uther says, steps over the mess on the floor, and walks past Arthur to the door. “Catrina, please clean this up.” 

Arthur wants to do several things at once, and the most dominant desire is to make good on his earlier promise and punch the living lights out of his father. But Catrina, as if reading his mind -- or the determined expression on his face -- is already there, ushering Uther out, and then closing the door behind her. 

“Arthur, help me with this, would you?” she chirps, not looking at him. 

Arthur takes a moment to breathe. And another. Then he sighs and bends over and starts picking up things from the floor. He collects scattered papers, picks up the broken phone, connects the keyboard back to the docking station, surprised he hasn’t done more damage, and turns to Catrina. 

“Remember what you told me the other day?” 

“Hmmm?” Catrina says, straightening out the folders on the desk. “What did I tell you?” 

“That you hold some power here, which we both know is true.” Arthur squeezes a smile out, hoping it’s enough. 

Catrina sighs. “How can I help, Arthur?” 

Arthur smiles even wider. “I think you are going to approve of it.” 

“Does it involve you taking me out for a cup of delicious tea?” 

“That’s exactly what it involves.” Arthur loves how smart this woman is.

“Then what are we waiting for?” 

As he walks out of the Municipalis with Catrina’s arm hooked over his, Arthur thinks that maybe, maybe his day is starting to look up.

 

 

 

 

xxxxx

“My place is not too far, Arthur,” Catrina offers, trying to keep up with Arthur’s wide strides and failing. He mercifully slows down and she gives him a grateful smile. 

Arthur thinks for a moment.   
  
“It’s safe,” she murmurs. “You father... his privacy...” 

Arthur nods quickly, suppressing the desire to close his ears and start chanting, “La-la-la-la-la.” He does not want to hear about Uther and Catrina and what they do in the privacy of her home. Been there, done that, traumatized for life.

She chuckles. “Don’t be a prude.” 

Is he? Maybe he is. 

“Yeah, all right. Your place. Probably best.” 

They fall in step and reach Catrina’s house in silence. It’s gated and secured. She has to punch the code three times, swearing under her breath. “After the scare with your apartment, Uther upped the security here,” she says. “He just installed new system last night, I have no clue what I’m doing.” 

Arthur studies the profile of the woman who’s been his father’s steady companion of almost two decades and realizes two things at once. One, nothing gets past Uther -- any fluctuation from the routine and he’s on top of it. Two, he cares. That he has some feelings for Catrina, at least somewhat resembling love, is clear to Arthur. He has a shitty way of showing it, and it’s never been good enough for Arthur, but isn’t it funny that they’re both still here, taking Uther’s despotic nature and aloof attitude? 

What Arthur is about to ask Catrina to do may as well be considered a betrayal. He has to tread carefully now. 

Uther’s presence is everywhere in the house: shoes, jackets, papers. Smell of his cologne. Arthur turns to Catrina with his mouth open, and she reads him like an open book. “You didn’t know? Well, to be fair, he probably doesn’t know, either. But yes, your father has been living here for a good five years now. He barely spends any time at his place. Although he likes to think he’s an independent man who doesn’t need no woman, and all that.” 

Arthur starts laughing. “There’s a reason I love you, Catrina. You are exactly what Uther needs.” 

He finds himself engulfed in a hug, sudden and fierce.

“Thank you, my boy. God, you have no idea what this means to me.” 

Arthur freezes and then raises his one arm to tentatively half-hug, half-pat her back. “I-- Right-- It’s all right.” As long as she doesn’t start crying. He eyes the side of her cheek for any signs of wetness. She raises her face. Nope, all good. Thank fucking god. 

“Coffee?” 

Arthur nods. Remedy for all ills, and a great conversation starter, and Arthur is so ready to move on. 

“Hungry?” 

“Starved,” he confesses. 

Catrina unloads half of the refrigerator on the counter and gets to work. She has two pans out, and something that smells delicious is making popping sounds in one of them when the kettle goes off with a loud whistle. Of course, she has his favorite brand of coffee.  

“Strong, two sugars, just the way you like it.” She places the steamy cup in front of him. “Lunch will be ready soon.”

She unloads whatever she’s been cutting into the second pan and covers it. After pouring a cup of tea for herself, she sits down on the opposite side of the table. 

“What do you need?” she asks.

“I like what you’ve done with the place,” Arthur says. The coffee is piping hot, and he has to wait.

“What do you need, Arthur?” Catrine sips from her cup and puts it down. “Just please... If Uther… There are some things I could never--” Her eyes are earnest. 

“I know,” Arthur interrupts her. “I would never ask.”

“Thank you for that. I want you both happy. It hasn’t been easy.”

“We aren’t exactly helping, are we?” Arthur smiles. 

“I don’t know any other men more stubborn and more proud.” Catrina turns to look out the window. 

“I’m sorry.” 

She looks at him again and shrugs. “I don’t know if you realize it, but he means well. Sometimes I blame myself.”

“Whatever for?”

“For enabling him. I tried to help him with you. Back then. Single father, hard-working man, a highly visible political figure. It was hard for him to be everywhere, to function without support, so I took on what I could. Relieved him from some worry. At the office, and with you.” She glances at Arthur again. “As much as you allowed me to.” 

“I know, I’m not proud of my combativeness. Back then.” Arthur rubs the back of his head, making a face.

“Combativeness doesn’t cover it. For a while you were downright hostile,” Catrina says. “You know I never dared to hope to replace Ygraine.”

“Even if you did, it would never work.” Arthur’s being honest. “For what it’s worth, I never dared to hope to come even close to replacing her, either.” 

“Yes.” 

Arthur wraps his fingers around the cup and shivers. 

“It’s all right, Arthur, really.” Catrina places her hand on his arm. “We live our lives, make our choices. I’ve made mine. I could’ve walked away.” 

Arthur gazes at Catrina’s warm, pensive expression and shakes his head. “Even if you knew that you couldn’t have it all, and that you’d always have to share him with something greater or someone better. It wouldn’t have made a difference. You’d stay.” 

Catrina doesn’t protest. She raises her hand to Arthur’s face and cups his cheek. “How hurt you are.” 

God. 

He closes his eyes. 

“I’m fine,” he says, breathing deeply. 

“What do you need?” Catrina asks for the third time, dropping her hand back to his arm, and Arthur sighs. 

“Help me search for something? It’s not about Uther, I promise. But you’ve been working for the Department for long enough and have probably seen every single imaginable case. You prepped Uther,” he says and looks at Catrina. 

She nods and waits. 

“There’s a procedure involving very powerful magic that isn’t well-documented within the Supernatural Convention. I need you to find whatever you can about a ritual sharing magic. It’s disguised under the sacrificial ritual, but it’s more than that.” 

“I’ve heard of that.” 

“You have?” Arthur isn’t sure if he’s glad or not, as it doesn’t matter at this point. “Then you can help to figure out if there’s a loophole in the law involving the process of a ritual approval. I need you to help me to overturn one. And I also will need you to look up two people for me. I will give you the names. Think you can do this?” 

Catrina smiles.

 

 

 

 

xxxxx

It’s as if Merlin has fallen off the face of the earth, and Arthur is going stir-crazy because of it. He wishes he could at least warn Merlin, and if he refuses to talk to Arthur, he’d survive, as long as Merlin knows what’s coming and has been prepared for the battle. That Merlin would put up some fight, Arthur is sure of, and that Arthur would never let him do so alone is not even a question. 

Just where the fuck is he? 

Arthur comes to his last resort -- he goes to the bar called “King’s Quarters”. At eleven o’clock in the morning, it’s closed to patrons, but Arthur knows well that certain members of the staff are there, including the one he needs. 

“Hello, asshole.” He’s greeted by the unfriendly voice belonging to his former friend. “I thought we’d established the boundaries already. You don’t came near me in a thousand-mile radius, and I don’t break your precious mug by accident.” 

“Fancy to seeing you, too, William. I’m afraid you’ll have to endure, and I’m rather attached to my face as is, so let’s not.” 

Will snorts. “You’ve always been a snot about it. What can I do for you? Cocktail hour doesn't start until two.” 

If Arthur is honest, Will looks like hell. There’s at least three-day stubble on his cheeks and bags under his eyes; uncharacteristically long, greasy hair has no shape or style. What hasn’t changed is his hostile glare and the big words always firing out of his mouth, but Arthur’s never minded that part.

Arthur pauses and looks around. Merlin and he used to spend a lot of evenings in this place. Will started a job here right after school -- first as a busboy, and then he moved up to bartender. As busy as the rest of them were with college, they quickly became regulars here; who’d ever turn down a chance for free booze? 

There is a booth in the corner with their initials carved in the wall, where Merlin and Arthur had their first tentative kiss, and Will threw a dirty washcloth in their faces and yelled at them to get a room.  In fact, there’s a "staff only" room in the back of the bar that’s seen a lot of action Will has never wanted to hear about. And even now, the memory of Merlin’s hot and filthy, _Fuck, your tongue, Arthur... yes, there.... fu-uh... you’re so hot like this, Arthur... on your knees, taking it all... Gonna let me come like this? Please, Arthur... Yes, I'm... Oh...._ sends blood rushing to Arthur’s cheeks. 

Those were the times. 

Arthur blinks. The ache of the loss of everything that had meaning to him is too strong to ebb right away, and it probably shows. 

Will loudly clears his throat, reminding Arthur he was there. "So?" He isn't stopping what he's doing: first unloading a stock-full of bottles onto the shelves behind the bar, then wiping the counter. All that, while barely sparing Arthur a glance. 

"I have a few questions," Arthur says. 

"About?" 

"Merlin." 

"What about him?" 

"That's a good question. We can start with that one." 

"Look, Pendragon. Don't you see I'm busy? " 

"Want me to come back later?" 

"Sure." 

"When?" 

"Oh,  I don't know, in..." WIll thinks for a moment "... never? Maybe then I'll have something to say to you." 

"I don't think so." 

"What, you stopped understanding English? I'm busy. Leave me the hell alone."

Arthur gets it; he does. Getting over a loss of someone very close to you -- and Will and Freya were much more than that -- is painful. It's something private and untouchable, and Arthur’d never want to be in Will’s shoes. Will must also remember that the Department treated Freya as nothing but a freak of nature after her death, yet Arthur, of all people, had chosen to work there. 

Arthur doesn't blame him, but it isn't about Freya today. 

He takes a deep breath. Once, twice. “Look, you made it clear last time how much you hate my guts... ” Without thinking, Arthur rubs his arm; when his fingers brush over the mark, it gives him a tug, an unpleasantly sharp pricking of the skin. “So, I'll cut to the chase. I need you to tell me where Merlin is. Just tell me where to find him and I’ll be out of your hair." 

"Merlin's traveling." Will's voice is a little too monotonous to be sincere, and Arthur picks up on it immediately. 

"Traveling?" Arthur ask. "Where?" 

Will shrugs. "No clue." 

"Did he tell you when he's coming back?"

"Nope." 

Will looks him straight in the eyes and smiles -- or rather, his mouth twitches into something that someone could interpret as a smile -- but Arthur isn't fooled. 

"Does he call you? Email? Can you tell me his address?" 

Will shakes his head, his hands still busy with wiping, and looks away. "We are no longer in contact. I got nothing for you."

"Nothing, huh?" Arthur reels himself in, although it's getting harder and harder. "When was the last time you saw him?" 

Will moves to the farthest table in the room and starts cleaning that one. 

"It's been a while," he says in an  even tone. 

"A while -- like a week, a month? A year?" 

"I'm not his boyfriend. I don't sit around counting days since the last time I saw him." 

Arthur pushes his fists into the pockets of his jacket. "You son of a bitch, Will. You fucking son of a bitch."

Something flashes across Wills face, unpleasant and sharp, but it comes and goes too fast, and he’s back to impassive cleaning. 

Arthur's already two blocks down the street when he hears someone calling his name. He glances back and sees Will rushing towards him across the road. 

"Wait up, dammit!" 

Arthur turns around with a grim expression on his face. "What's the matter, your conscience called and it wants its voice back?" he asks as Will stops next to him, panting. 

"No, I... Look..." Will rubs the back of his neck. 

Arthur waits.

"Can we go talk somewhere? Somewhere private?" Will asks. 

"My apartment is too far away.  We could go to yours." 

"I moved." 

"I know, I looked you up." 

Will's annoyance is clear on his face. "Fucking snitches." 

"Stop being paranoid. Your address is a public record." 

"My ass," Will mutters.

"That sounds promising," Arthur says. 

Will's place is a studio ten minutes away from the pub, and it's clearly not lived in. There are boxes everywhere, most of them still unpacked; dirty clothes  are piled right on the floor, and Will just kicks them out of the way when they walk into the room. 

"Wow," Arthur comments, not really judging, just surprised at how much Will stopped caring. He turns around and freezes halfway, faced with a big, framed black-and-white picture of Freya on the wall. She's on the beach, in a white flowing dress with a flower above her ear. A few locks of her dark long hair twist across her face and she is pushing them away, laughing straight into the camera. Arthur remembers that day; it was her and Will’s engagement party, six months before her death. 

A few flickering miniature electric candles and pieces of dry bread crusts are spread on the mantle right under the picture. 

Will coughs behind Arthur's back. "Beer?"

"Yeah, sure." Arthur looks around for a place to sit down and finds nothing but the boxes on the floor.

"Uh, when did you move in?" Arthur asks as Will fiddles with the small fridge in the adjoined kitchenette. 

"About six months ago." Will untwists the cup and hands Arthur the bottle. 

"Where do you sleep?" 

"I--" Will looks down at his bottle, shrugging. "I spend a lot of time at the pub. And at my mom's." He shifts from one foot to the other, then gestures at the boxes. "Wanna sit? Anywhere is fine." He gives Arthur an uneasy smile. 

"What's going on, Will?" Arthur asks quietly after he finds a sturdy box to sit on.

Will walks to Freya's picture and stands in front of it, looking at it in a long silence. 

"She didn't commit suicide, contrary to the Department's conclusion," he finally says. "She went on an impossible mission and she knew it, but she had every intention of coming back." 

"What happened?" 

"She went to get your Merlin back, Pendragon, and she failed." 

 

 

 

 

xxxxx

 


	9. Chapter 9

xxxxx

xxxxx

Arthur stares at WIll. "Get Merlin from where?" 

"I knew you weren't the sharpest tool in the box, Pendragon, but really... _The realm_. She went into the realm."

Arthur takes a sip from his drink, looks at the label of the bottle, and grimaces. "You got anything stronger than this?"

Will gives him a watery smile. "I think we both need it."

"Can you please start from the beginning?" Arthur asks once they’ve both downed a healthy portion of whiskey. The stuff is strong, spreading warmth through his body, and he feels as if his muscles have been unlocked after a long, stiff run uphill. "Why was she looking for Merlin in the realm?"

"From the beginning, then. So, Merlin was obsessed with this idea." Will glances at Arthur. "Involving you, what else."

"What idea?"

"He was convinced that some druid guy was going to off you. Something about prophecies, seers, the balance. He and Freya talked too much about it for me to be interested."

This is so much like Will, Arthur huffs a small laugh. "I'm not surprised. You could never concentrate for shit. On anything."

"Well, good thing I only mix drinks for a living. Although that means you'll never know what ever goes in them." Will smirks.

"Still alive," Arthur says.

Will's smile falters.  "Be grateful for that."

"Yeah."

"You know how you always said you wanted to be a sorcerer?"

"When did I say that?"

"Man, all the time, especially when drunk. Lamented about the awesomeness of having magic."

"I didn't--"

"Pendragon, please." Will rolls his eyes.

Arthur huffs. "Okay, I might have mentioned once or twice about wanting magic. I was a kid; I thought it was cool."

"Right, did you also think it was cool that your father regarded magic users as opportunists who took advantage of the rest of the folks? Or that he kept tightening the rules about using magic, about entering realm, about using spells?" 

"The hell would you know? You're not a magic user." 

"Uther called my fiancée a beast and a freak. I paid attention," Will bites out.

"He didn't--"

"Ah, Pendragon, come on. We were all at your house. Your father came in, pissing on our parade with his shit mood. Called you into the kitchen, remember? I was walking by to take a leak and overheard him demanding you kick everyone out. Said his house was infested with magic and that that was unacceptable. He talked about my _friends_ , Pendragon."

"They were my friends, too," Arthur spits out. "And if you'd have snooped for long enough, you would've heard my response."

"What was it?"

"Now you'll never know. And you're right, I always envied Merlin -- and Freya, although she always called her gift a curse."

Will turns back to the picture and pauses. "She was beautiful."

"She was."

"You know about the ritual, then," Will asks after a few beats of silence.

"I do."

"It was Freya's idea," Will says. "Our worlds are too divided, so when Freya found out about the magic share thing, at first it was meant for us, but then she learned what it would involve and she was too scared her Bastet curse would affect me. She refused to even consider it between us after that. Merlin, though. Merlin latched on to it.” Will pours himself another drink. “One night he came to our place, shaking, scared completely out of his mind. Morgana’d had yet another vision about you dying."

Will glances at Arthur with apprehension, and Arthur nods for him to go on.

"He said something about a bond helping the ritual to work. Magic would flow better or something. He and Freya were whispering in the kitchen for months. I even kicked him out a few times."

"Where was I all that time?" Arthur asks.

"Dunno." Will shrugs. "Studying? Your father rode you hard that last year of college."

That he did.

Arthur does recall being irritated by the conspiring looks and hushed tones, but Merlin knew how to deflect it easily. Merlin had stellar methods.

And he remembers the night of Merlin's fervent kisses, trailed hot on his skin, and Merlin's broken and hopeful whisper while he moved in Arthur, every inch of them touching. _Arthur, you're mine... Want my magic to be yours... Bond with me, Arthur? Be mine forever?_

Arthur had never came harder in his life. It was easy to say yes -- to sob it.

So, the bond was supposed to help the ritual.

"He was crushed when Uther rejected his request the first time. Crushed and so damn determined."

"He never told me." Arthur can't hide his hurt. Will knew all this, and Arthur didn't. "Not even a hint."

"And what would he have told you? ‘Pendragon, you’re going to die soon of unnatural causes and I'm here to save the day’?"

"I don't need saving. I'm perfectly capable myself."

"And that's exactly how he thought you'd react."

"Still, he should've talked to me."

"And if he’d asked you, would you have agreed to it?" Will asks.

"I don't know what I would've done, but he robbed me of the choice. First by going behind my back about the magic transfer, even pushing my father for it, and then by changing his mind about us and opting out of my life all together." 

"What are you talking about? Merlin would never do such a thing." 

"Well, he did." 

"When?" 

"Last year, on the day of our anniversary." 

Will stares at him for such a long time, Arthur starts fidgeting. 

"What?" he asks. 

Will shakes his head.

"What?" 

"You're saying he did the ritual and then turned around and broke up with you? That doesn’t make any sense."

“There was no ritual!” Arthur cries.

Will scratches his eyebrow. "Okay, back up a little. That’s not what I thought was supposed to happen."

Will’s illusions is so not what Arthur wants to discuss, but for the sake of mending friendships and seeking out the truth, which might also bring certain closure, why not? He'll do it.

He sighs. "What did you think was going to happen?"

"Again, don't quote me -- it was mostly between Freya and Merlin, so take it for what it’s worth. I swear sometimes I felt like a third wheel, they were so tight," Will says, and Arthur can sympathize; he was jealous of them sometimes, too. "But your Merlin was going to do the ritual that day. It was his present of sorts, to you."

Arthur frowns. "Are you sure about that? Certainly a strange present."

Will snorts. "Yeah, because Merlin was the most conventional guy. Freya thought it was a bad idea, but when did Merlin listen where it came to your royal pratness? He breathed fire on anyone who even looked at you wrong, let alone threatened your life."

"Again, not a damsel in distress."

"He is a _warlock_ , Pendragon. If he can’t offer the one thing that makes him who he is, then what are we even talking about here? It was not about you being a coward or weak. It was about Merlin making his magic worthwhile. He genuinely believed his magic had no meaning if it couldn't help you. You were the one for him."

"And if I said no?"

"He wouldn't be so hell-bent over this if there was another solution."

“You’re saying he would’ve done it no matter what.”

“Yes, I believe so.”

"How do you know all this?"

"You never gave me enough credit, Pendragon.” Will smiles. “I'm a bartender, remember? I can be a good listener when I want to."

Arthur looks down. "It really bothered him, didn't it? That I didn't have magic?"

"Now you’re the one who doesn't listen. The guy was mad about you, and it bothered him that you might have been too proud to accept his gift.”

Arthur rubs his face. "This is all so..." He waves his hand. “I don’t know, Will.”

Will laughs softly. "We know how to pick 'em, don't we?"

"We sure do."

"So no, you need to check your head again, because Merlin would never leave you."

Arthur nods; his heart picks up its rate again. "What did he tell you about that day? Anything?"

"If you haven’t caught on yet, Merlin hasn’t told me anything because he’s been busy elsewhere,” Will says, using a little too much acid in his voice for Arthur’s liking.

“A little less bullshit, a little more useful information, please,” he suggests.

Will inhales and exhales as if he’s the one whose patience is being tested. “I know for a fact that Merlin had every intention of doing the ritual that day. Freya thought he did it, you don't seem to have a clue, so something must have gone wrong. Something happened to his magic, and Merlin... Well, that's the thing, we don't know what happened. We haven’t seen him since."

Arthur finishes his whiskey, walks across the room to the window, then turns back to Will. Things are starting to click into place, and what he’s concluding is looking grim. "You're telling me that Merlin went in to perform the ritual and never made it out of the realm? He might be stuck there somehow?"

"Freya thought so. She said Merlin pulled you somewhere she couldn’t go herself, and at first, she thought that maybe you guys wanted privacy for your… you know...” Will makes an awkward joining motion with his hands, “... _process_ or whatever. But then after she didn’t hear from Merlin for hours, she started to worry and went to look for you...

"She found you in the park knocked out. You were completely out of it. I helped to bring you home and Freya went back there. She was very upset. She…“ Will pushes his hand through his hair. “All she did after that was searching. We had a fucking wedding coming up and she didn’t care. Practiced magic every night… Stubborn woman, refused to listen, although Merlin had _warned_ her not to take any risks. She did it anyway."

"Died magicking an impossible level," Arthur whispers. "She was trying to rescue Merlin."

Will’s Adam’s apple bobs as he smiles weakly. "That was my Freya. Never gave up."

The realization of what this all means sends cold sweat down Arthur’s spine. "Will, no one has seen Merlin in over a year. If Freya was right and Merlin got stuck somewhere in the realm, he must still be there. Are you telling me you knew about it all this time and you didn't tell me or anyone? You didn't do anything about it?"

Will walks back into the kitchenette and pours himself another shot of whiskey. Throws it back in one go.

He points at Arthur with the empty glass still in his hand, swaying a little on his feet. “Well, you know Merlin. When he sets his mind on something… Here, want another?” He offers him the bottle. 

Arthur grimaces. “No, I’ve had enough, and I think you have, too. Will--” 

“Ah, food then...” Will’s mouth stretches into a slow, one-sided smile. He pulls a bag of bread out the cupboard and tries to open it with unbending fingers.

“Shit, you’re knackered.” Arthur helps open the bag. When he does, the stink of mold hits the air. “How old is this crap?”

“I’m sorry, your royal _ass_ highness, we didn’t stock our kitchens with fresh meats awaiting your arrival.”

“Oh, fuck off.” Arthur pushes the bread away and walks to the cupboards behind Will. “You need water.” He can’t find a clean glass, so he rinses and fills up the one he just used and offers it to Will.

Will takes it, sloshing third of it in the process.

Arthur pushes the bottle of whiskey away from Will. “Now tell me why the fuck you abandoned your best friend, Will.”

"And you're better?" Will sneers back. Arthur sways on his feet and not because of the amount of alcohol in his system. 

Will drinks his water in excruciatingly slow sips while staring at Arthur. It takes forever for him to finish, and then he says, “He made us swear.”

“Swear?”

“He made Freya swear that she’d rescue you in case of a…” Will waves vaguely “... problem. But if something happened, _no one_ was to know. We were not to mention the ritual to anyone. He made me swear the same, and that I wouldn’t do anything stupid, like try to help him if something went wrong.” Will closes his eyes, breathing harshly, he looks like he’s about to puke -- green and unsteady on his feet. “If there was a problem, no matter what, Freya and I had to stay away from the realm and wait. He said to wait.”

“What about me?”

“Huh?”

“I wasn’t asked to wait. Somehow, I was made to believe I wasn’t wanted at all. I remember a picnic, fucking champagne. I remember being dumped like it was a favor to me. I don't remember any ritual.”

Will briefly closes his eyes. “I don't know; that's between you two what happened there. Maybe he tried and failed and made you forget. Maybe he thought if he makes you hate him, you’d stay out of the realm and out of trouble.” Will waves with an unsteady hand. “I can’t say.”

There are so many holes in that theory, Arthur doesn’t even want to consider it. He shakes his head.

“Okay,” he says. “So, Merlin asked you to stay away in case he was hurt or in trouble and you thought, ‘Eh, why not’? Is that right?”

Will frowns, gazing around the room, then finally at Arthur. “S’not so simple,” he mumbles.

“I’ve heard that before,” Arthur says through his teeth. “But you know what?” he leans closer to WIll’s face. “It usually is.”

“Fuck you!” Will pushes him in the chest. “Fuck you, Pendragon. Up yours! We tried, and where were you? I lost Freya! She would’ve been here today if Merlin wasn't so hung up on you and if she wasn't so hung up on Merlin!” He looks around with wild eyes, breathing harshly. “Fuck!” He grabs his empty glass and throws it against the wall. It shatters to pieces, and one grazes Arthur on the cheek. Arthur touches the spot and finds a little bit of blood on his fingers.

"That's bullshit, and you know it," he says. 

Will ignores him. He picks up the bottle, takes a long swig straight from it, and slowly wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’ve got nothing else to give,” he says, shaking his head. “Merlin made his choices. Merlin's strong. He is a fucking powerhouse. And if he said he can handle it and told us to wait, I say we wait.”

“No.” Arthur shakes his head. “Fuck that. I’m not waiting. Enough of that.”

He glances at Will, who’s now slumping over the sink. Arthur looks around one more time, taking in the room that is nothing but a shrine to a dead person, and says, “Clean this up, Will. Clean yourself up. When I get Merlin back and he sees all this, I doubt he’ll like what you’ve become.”

Will raises his bloodshot eyes to Arthur, his mouth in a mourning line, and nods slowly.

Arthur nods back, ready to leave.

“Pendragon,” Will calls when Arthur’s already at the door. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah,” Arthur says. “I’m sorry, too.”

xxxxx

Arthur does get drunk that night. Spectacularly, smashingly drunk, just to have a few moments of free-falling. He tries to imagine Merlin and the purgatory he’s currently in. How does one survive a whole year in a world without food and water, surrounded by… Arthur has a hard time picturing what it’s like, and if all this time he’s yearned for warmth, for familiar touch, just for Merlin’s hands on him, now he aches for something else. It’s too much -- the feeling that pushes against his ribcage and threatens to burst his heart into a million pieces. And maybe he needed this year to happen -- to spend this time aching, longing and vacillating-- because in this drunken moment, he achieves the clarity of mind he’s never had before, and he understands something. He gets Merlin.

All this time Athur was afraid that he was different from him, that he wasn’t enough. Today, as he feels his blood pressing heavily against his temples, and the mark pulsing hotly in the crease of his arm, Arthur knows how wrong he was. He _has_ something to share with Merlin. He has so much of it, if Merlin refuses, he might die of an overdose. And if Merlin ever felt half of what Arthur does at this moment, it’s no wonder he’d wanted the ritual. Sharing that burn is the only way to live.

xxxxx

It's Saturday, and unless Arthur's called in to work for an emergency assignment, he has a free day. That doesn't mean he's going to get up later than usual -- not when he has this constant "ants in your pants" feeling itching him all over -- so he's out of bed when it's not even seven. He only has a slight headache -- thank goodness he drank the good stuff the last night.

Something is stuck in Arthur's head from the other day. It's something Uther told him. It's...

"Inherited a weak mind," he croaks out loud. "Inherited..."

Arthur scrambles out of the shower with shampoo still in his hair. He dries himself hastily and grabs his phone, dialing a number before putting any clothes on.

"Leon--"

"It's Morgana... Pendragon, do you ever sleep?" Morgana hisses into the phone. "Give your team a damn break."

Arthur winces. "Sorry, sorry. But I need to speak with Leon."

"Speak to me. I’ll know anyway."

Arthur doesn't respond.

Morgana sighs. "Fine."

It takes a few moments of fumbling and hushed murmurs, and Arthur thinks he even hears some soft kissing noises. It makes him annoyed and ache with longing at the same time.

"Art..." Leon clears his throat. "Arthur, what's wrong?"

Arthur inhales, exhales and says, "I think I found a connection between Merlin and Ganeida."

"Okay, what is it?"

"It's Hunith."

 

xxxxx

When Arthur walks into Uther's office and closes the door behind himself, Uther is on the phone. He hisses, “Get out,” as soon as he figures that Arthur isn’t just checking on Uther’s mood but rather fully intends to interrupt him. 

Uther covers the receiver of the phone and barks, “Catrina!” 

Arthur shows Uther the key. “I’m sure she has a spare and it’s just a matter of time before she interrupts us, but I’ll get straight to the point.”

Uther mutters into the phone, “I’ll have to call you back,” and slams it down. “It better be something serious,” he says, his eyes narrowed.

“Oh, it is,” Arthur responds.

“No, I mean it. It must be a matter of national security. Half of Camelot must be in danger for you to have the gal to barge in here like that.”

“Might as well be your entire kingdom.” Arthur presses his back against the door, crosses his arms on his chest, and waits.

Uther gives him a long, harsh look, but Arthur arches his brow, absolutely unfazed.

“It’s your Merlin again, isn’t it? You just won’t let it go.”

“You got it. You know me so well, Father.”

Uther briefly closes his eyes, reining himself in. He does know Arthur very well. “I’m listening.”

“Good. Here’s the short version." Arthur pulls a piece of paper out of his back pocket, unfolds it, and places it in front of Uther. "Delivered in person as a courteous heads-up, so you don’t feel blindsided. The original is recorded with Catrina." 

Arthur turns on his heels to leave. 

"What the hell is this? Arthur, come back here," Uther calls.

"Got time for me now, I see." Arthur faces Uther again.

"What is this nonsense?"

"It's a formal appeal."

"I can see that. What kind of game are you playing?"

Arthur had promised himself he’d stay calm, so he tries.

"Funny you consider someone else's life a game. I'm appealing the petition by Ganeida Myrddyn’s that you granted on May twenty-sixth of this year. I have requested a hearing to overturn your decision on the matter.”

Uther opens his mouth, then closes it again. He shifts in his chair, leaning closer. His stunned expression turns amused; then, he starts laughing.

“Do you really think I’m going to consider this? Arthur, you need to grow up and start living in the real world. I’m given the highest power over the people of Camelot, magic or not. My decision cannot be changed.”

“Cannot or will not?” Arthur asks.

Uther stares at him, bemused. “It’s final, Arthur.”

“See, Father, today is a day when I thank you for making me study law. Not only I can tell you with confidence that your decision is not final, I also can assure you that my appeal is perfectly legal. And there will be a formal hearing, as in it’s not going to be you alone making the final ruling.”

Uther laughs again. “Who is it going to be, then?”

“The members of the High Court, and you know who they are.”

“You expect _The Disir_ to give you the time of day?” Uther scoffs. “This is not done.”

“You've grown complacent, sir. I suggest you brush up on the Supernatural Law and check the rules detailed by the Convention as of September fifteenth, year nineteen eighty-nine. I can appeal just about any of your decisions within fourteen days of the original ruling. And," Arthur glances at the calendar on the wall behind Uther, “I'm well within my grace period.”

Uther rolls closer to his monitor and types something. Whatever he finds there makes him lean even closer and stare at the screen pensively. Arthur waits. When Uther’s done, he leans back and, linking his fingers together, says, “There’s no point, son. You're never going to win.” 

“Why? Because you don’t want me to?” Arthur walks to the desk. 

“No, because you have no grounds for appeal. You have no case, Arthur. You've got no magic, and no legal ties to Merlin. He’s one of theirs, not yours.” Uther has the audacity to add sympathy to the tone of his voice. “Let it go, son. It’s for the best. Understand that even if I convince them to give you a hearing, The Disir would not make a different ruling. It’s already been decided, and Merlin _will_ serve his purpose. He’s been claimed.” 

“You might be right about that.” Arthur smiles. “Call the session, Father.”

“I will not. You’re wasting everyone’s time.” Uther’s eyes gleam with a promise of nothing good.

“Actually, _you_ are. If you refuse to exercise the appeal process, in accordance with section thirteen, part six-b of the Supernatural Convention, you'd be in violation, which would void your original approval by the time the fourteen-day period is up. So, I don’t think you have much choice. As you can see, it's in your best interest to get a move on it, and I remind you that Ganeida cannot initiate the ritual until the final ruling.” 

Arthur makes a move to leave. 

“Wait,” Uther calls, and Arthur stops. They appraise each other silently, with no heat. “You aren’t bluffing. You’ve got something up your sleeve, haven’t you?” Uther asks. 

Arthur smiles. “Read my appeal again and call the session, sir. Do it right away.” And then he adds, softer. “Please.” 

He walks out of Uther’s office and places the key on Catrina’s desk. She looks at him quizzically, and when he nods, she beams and gives him two thumbs up.

“Right?” Arthur whispers and winks.

“Go, go,” she whispers back, waving him off. “I’ll let you know the date of the hearing.”

Arthur grins all the way back to his quarters.  

 xxxxx


	10. Chapter 10

 

xxxxx

On the morning of the hearing, Arthur wakes unusually early, even for him -- if what he’d had last night could be considered sleep. Mostly, he tossed around and waited for the morning to come. There’s no big strategy, and no doubts about the outcome. He just needs it done.

Gwaine’s already waiting downstairs when he walks out of the building, and Arthur isn’t even surprised.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, as they start their walk to the underground station.

Gwaine shrugs. “Can't let my favorite princess deal with the evil witches alone.”

“Gwaine,” Arthur says, glancing at his friend.

“Yeah,” Gwaine responds without any enthusiasm.

“When we're done with this, when it’s over, we should talk to Gaius.”

“What about?”

“You know what,” Arthur says softly.

“If this is about the charm potions--” Gwaine starts.

“That too. But not only.”

Gwaine slows down his stride, then stops. Arthur does, too.

“What are you talking about? I’m--”

“ _Fine_ , I know. And no, you’re not. You need--”

“Help?” Gwaine steps into Arthur’s space, ignoring the curious looks they’re given by people passing them on the street. “You, of all people, are going to talk issues?”

“Yes.” Arthur doesn’t back down, although Gwaine’s magic really wants him to. “I don’t have a choice.”

“But you do have a choice."

Gwaine lifts his hand, palm stopping at Arthur's chest, hovering close but not touching. "If you just gave it a chance...” he says and lets it go -- his magic -- it slides up Arthur's chest and over his shoulders, swooping him into an embrace, licks up his neck, sneaks under the layers of his shirt, and wraps itself around his waist, pulling him closer. The rims of Gwaine's eyes glow with gold.

Arthur gasps at the invasive touch; the intensity, the desperation, the obsessiveness of Gwaine’s magic is too much, and he hates himself for the instant hot arousal pooling just below his belly. And stupid, relentless, contemptuous Gwaine senses it right away. He recognizes Arthur’s shallow breathing for what it is, and his magic skates triumphantly down his body, pressing warmly at the small of Arthur's back, moving down, quickly caressing the back of his thighs, and nudging his knees to give in a little. Arthur bites his lip, resisting the invitation by sheer will. He also doesn't make a sound because they are in public, but Gwaine doesn't seem to care.

Gwaine smiles -- a sad and devastatingly sweet smile that breaks whatever’s left of Arthur’s heart -- and leans to Arthur's ear. “What if I don’t want help? What if I like it that way? With you.”  

"No," Arthur says, turning to meet Gwaine's eyes. "You hate it, and soon, you'll hate me, too. Let go. Enough."

Gwaine doesn’t right away. He makes one more attempt to tighten his grip on Arthur’s hips, while studying his face. Arthur shakes his head, saying nothing more.

With a grimace, Gwaine lets go and steps back. Shrugs. “Your loss.”

“I know.”

“We could’ve been amazing together,” Gwaine whispers and brushes his knuckles over Arthur’s jaw -- a quick, tender touch -- and it feels like a goodbye. It makes Arthur’s chest ache. Gwaine doesn’t spare his heart, because his own hurts, and he deserves to give Arthur a little pain, so Arthur could feel how hard it is for him.

“I know,” Arthur says. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah.” Gwaine turns away. He takes a moment, then rolls his shoulders and adjusts his belt. When he turns back, his face is smooth and his eyes crinkle with mirth. “So, are you coming, princess? High Court won’t wait, you know. You have your Merlin to win back.”

With relief and hope that maybe they’ll be okay after all this, Arthur nods.

They spend their train ride to the Municipalis in a companionable silence, with Arthur leaning against the back of the seat, eyes closed, and Gwaine humming something, his thigh pressed firmly to Arthur’s, radiating warmth and reassurance that some things won’t change, no matter what, and Arthur’s grateful.

 

 

xxxxx

If it weren’t for Gwaine’s generous empathic power, Arthur would probably be having a hard time keeping composed as they approach the Municipalis building. He glances at his friend. “Thank you.”

Gwaine makes the most innocent of faces. “What for?” And bumps his shoulder.

“Just please don’t overdo it at the hearing. I can’t afford being so chilled out that I don’t care.”

“Oh no, I’ll let you have it and will enjoy watching you rip them a new one. Go get them, Rapunzel.”

Leon’s waiting for them by the stairs leading to the front entrance. “Arthur, since you’re coming in as a private citizen today, they’ll take your badge, your devices and weapons, and they’ll pat you down. Don’t argue; it’s procedure,” he instructs him quietly as they walk up.

Arthur doesn't like the news one bit, but then, he has his best friends with him -- the strongest and most reliable power he’s ever had the privilege to call his own -- and at the end of the day, that's all that matters, so he pulls the disabler from his back pocket and turns in his badge.

The security guy looks pointedly at him, and Arthur rolls his eyes. “Fine.” He unfastens the second disabler from the hem of this sleeve. “This one I’m coming back for, no matter what. It’s not the Department’s property.”

“I won’t ask if it’s registered, Mr. Pendragon.”

“I don’t carry unregistered devices,” Arthur informs him.

Gwaine snorts softly behind him and grunts when Leon jabs him in the ribs. The security guy pretends he doesn’t notice.

“All clear,” he tells Arthur after patting him down and repeating the process with Leon. He turns to Gwaine. “Now you, sir.”

“Me?" Gwaine makes a thoroughly offended face. "I’m not with them. I don't even know these two!"”

“Well, unless you’re on the job, I can’t let you in without having checked everything in.”

“But of course,” Gwaine says so gleefully, only people who don’t know him would believe he means it. He pulls his badge and his disabler, placing them into the bin handed to him by the security guard. Then, he takes out a pack of gum.

“Oh no,” Leon groans quietly, and Gwaine, the bastard, smiles, while pulling one piece out and popping it into his mouth.

“This is going to be a disaster,” Arthur mutters under his breath.

Gwaine chews with his eyes closed and contentment on his face. “Tangerine,” he says, opening his eyes and leaning close to the security guy. “My favorite,” he breathes into his face.

The guy’s face scrunches up in confusion. “I don’t--”

“Melon is pretty decent. But tangerine...” Gwaine lets another breath out, and the guy starts smiling like a loon, his eyes turning glassy. “Do you mind if I take this now?” Gwaine asks, pointing at the bin.

The guy shakes his head vigorously. “No, sir. Please, sir.”

Arthur uses this opportunity to snatch his confiscated disabler while Gwaine scoops his things up.

“Thank you,” Gwaine says. “If I weren’t busy for foreseeable future, I’d ask you out.”

“Gwaine, please.” Leon taps his wrist.

“You are no fun, Leon.” Gwaine sighs, turning to the guy and rumpling his hair. “Sorry, darling. Gotta go.”

“You’re such a jerk,” Arthur says when they’re a safe distance away. “Did you have to?”

Gwaine’s no longer smiling. “There’s no chance in hell I’d go unarmed into this hearing.”

“As if our disablers can do any harm in there. Not against Nimueh, and you really don’t want to piss off the dragon. I don’t think there’s a weapon in the world that can bring down Kilgharrah,” Arthur says.

“Unless you’re Balinor.” Gwaine smiles, wiggling his brows suggestively.

“Gwaine...”

“I know it when I see it, man,” Gwaine says. “They are totally doing it. I bet he even occasionally turns into a dragon when they--”

“I do _not_ need to have that image in my head!” Arthur cries.

“Hey, don’t be a prude!”

“We are not discussing Balinor and Kilgharrah getting off with each other, all right? Please.” Arthur hastens his steps to avoid further conversation on the topic.

Gwaine and Leon snicker behind him.

“It’s okay, princess,” Gwaine calls out, “we know you're a sensible lady. No talks about fire breath-play and air suspension, I promise!”

Leon guffaws and Arthur gives them a middle-fingered salute.

As peeved as he is with these two children who call themselves his friends, at least he isn’t spazzing by the time they reach the room used for large conferences. “We’re here,” he says, stopping in front of the doors, taking a deep breath.

“Ready?” Leon asks.

“Born that way,” Arthur mutters.

“Onto it, then,” Leon says. “Good luck.”

Arthur walks into the room with his head high and his step steady. The room is...

Empty.

There are rows of chairs on each side, facing a long table on the podium. The windows are covered with shutters, and with minimal natural light streaming in and no other electricity on, the room is dark and eerily quiet.

Arthur spins around. “Are we in the wrong place?”

“I don’t think so. You told us fourth floor, ” Leon says.

“It has to be it. The hearing is supposed to start at ten. It’s ten now!”

“Well, maybe the High Court likes to be fashionably late,” Gwaine says.

Arthur shakes his head, taking in the hollow silence of the room. “I don’t think so.” He pulls his phone out and dials a number.

“Catrina,” he says.

“Arthur, thank God! I was dialing you. Where are you?” she asks.

“We’re on the fourth floor -- the conference room, like you said.”

“When did I say that?”

Arthur’s thinking. When, indeed? For the love of him he can’t recall the conversation, but he’s sure it happened. “I don’t remember. Shit!”

“I gave you the letter. The room number should be there -- do you have it? Argh, never mind! West wing, seventh floor, room seven-fifty. Now, Arthur, now!”

“What’s happening?” Gwaine asks as Arthur starts running.

“Fucking Nimueh, it’s her work all over. Fuck, I don’t know how she did it, but she’s messed with my head, Gwaine.”

“But your...”

“Yeah, my super ward, whatever, didn’t help. She’s a High Priestess for a reason.”

Arthur is running, with Gwaine and Leon not far behind. He reaches the West Tower in no time and forgoes the lift -- several flights of stairs is nothing when he's this close to putting this whole ordeal behind him and getting Merlin back.

He skids to a stop in front of the room they need and takes a moment to catch his breath. “Well, if I wasn’t upset before, they’ve got me where they don’t want me now.”

“Good,” Gwaine says and kisses him. Presses his mouth to Arthur’s, parts Arthur’s lips with his tongue a little, and gently breathes into him, and Arthur feels it -- the surety and the strength filling his lungs, pumping his heart stronger and steadier. Arthur knows it’s not just ancient magic being passed into him, it’s his best friend giving him the best he is -- his loyalty and love. The potion part of it won't last long, but the feeling it's spreading within him will stay with him forever.

Leon hums approvingly and adds, “That's extremely illegal."

Gwaine smirks. "I did my best."

Leon spreads his hands apologetically at Arthur. "Sorry, man, none of that from me.”

Arthur smiles. “You wound me, brother.”

“Just go in already.”

Arthur goes.

This room is a whole different story -- it's bright and certainly occupied. Four people in various states of impatience turn at the sound of them walking in. Kilgharrah’s smile is smug. Balinor’s is one of relief. Uther’s annoyed -- the man could never stand lateness. And Nimueh’s snarling.

“Hello, am I in the right room?” Arthur asks. “My GPS had some nasty interferences.”

Leon makes a small choking sound behind him.

“You’re _late_ , Arthur Pendragon,” Nimueh says.

“No thanks to you, m’am,” Arthur snaps. “If you try to get into my head ever again, I--”

“You should be so lucky,” she interrupts him. “All the whining there, the ‘poor me’, and ‘where’s Merlin’,” she mocks. “Pathetic.”

“Nimueh.” Balinor shakes his head.

Nimueh sighs. “Fine. Are we ready? Now?”

“I’m ready,” Arthur says.

With all that hasty entering and the bickering, Arthur misses one other person in the room. Ganeida is the only one who is sitting down, hands folded on her lap; her face, as usual, void of any expression. The one major difference in her frumpy appearance from last time is her hair. It frames her face in shiny, lush locks -- making her skin look even paler, almost translucent -- and cascades down her shoulders.

She raises her eyes at him, deep-blue and so lost,  Arthur’s breath catches in his throat. She looks so much like Merlin at that moment -- and so fragile -- he has to dig his nails into the meat of his palms to stop himself from going to her.

Gwaine leans into him. “Who is she?” he whispers.

“Dude,” Leon says, “That’s Ganeida Myrddyn.”

Gwaine cocks his head, his eyes trained on the girl, and hums softly.

The sound of the gavel banging against the table brings them back to the matter at hand.

Balinor and Nimueh take their seats on either side of Uther, who puts his glasses on and opens the file in front of him.

“The High Court is now in session.” Uther isn’t wasting any more time. “We will be starting by reviewing the case and the merits of the appeal. Ganeida Myrddyn, step forward, please,” Uther says, looking above his glasses at the girl.

“What is this?” Nimueh hisses. “She is not on trial. She has no business being here to begin with, yet you put her on the stand?”

“Her petition, although approved, " Uther says, "is being appealed, and unless Ganeida Myrddyn cooperates with the process, I cannot proceed with the hearing; the appeal will be decided automatically.”

"You want cooperation, Uther?" Nimueh's voice drips with venom. "Fine." She turns to Ganeida. "Ganeida? Remember what we talked about?"

“I think so,” Ganeida says in such a soft voice, it barely carries over to Arthur.

"Good," Nimueh says with a smile that's more on a side of nasty than encouragement. "Then off you go."

Ganeida slips from her seat and moves to the spot behind the table Uther points to.

“Thank you, Ms. Myrddyn," Uther says patiently while Nimueh watches the process very closely, her eyes occasionally swirl with gold. "Now raise your hand.” He reads Ganeida her rights and requests that she pledge her allegiance on the Book of Supernatural Law and speak truthfully when asked. Ganieda follows the instructions obediently; she speaks softly, but her words ring clearly across the room.

Balinor watches her, almost transfixed, and so far, neither Arthur nor Leon or Gwaine have been offered a seat or told where to stand. Arthur is sure they are being purposefully ignored. He’s fine with that; his time will come. He’s waited a year; he can wait a few more minutes.

“You may sit,” Urther tells Ganeida, seeming satisfied with her supplicative attitude, and turns to Arthur, finally. “Arthur Pendragon, please step forward.”

He points to the table opposite to Ganeida’s and waits until Arthur assumes his spot behind it. “Raise your hand.”

Arthur hears whispering behind him that sounds more like bickering. Trust his friends to create a commotion, even in High Court.

“Quiet!” Uther pounds the gavel against the table. “Or I’ll have you removed.”

Leon and Gwaine shut up immediately, but as soon as Uther turns back to Arthur and opens his mouth to speak, Gwaine clears his throat and says, “May we at least take a seat, your... er... highn...uh... _ass_?”

Arthur presses his lips together so he doesn’t snort out loud. Fucking smart-ass Gwaine. Does he ever take anything seriously?

“Sit down, both of you!” Uther thunders, and Leon and Gwaine scramble to the seats behind Arthur, making a lot of noise in the process.

Ganeida glances at them, and for the first time since Arthur has met the girl, he sees a slight tug at the corner of her mouth that, with a lot of squinting, could pass as the promise of a smile. He wonders what he should attribute it to. Is it her chill-pill wearing off, or does she actually have emotions, although so deep down, it takes two clowns like his friends to move her? Or maybe, as it dawns on Arthur, it's Gwaine magicking his charm through.

Gwaine starts whispering something to Leon, to which he answers, “Yes, totally gorgeous. Shut up, Gwaine. Not now.”

Ganeida must have heard that, because her hands twitch on the table, and Arthur notices the redness slowly spreading from her neck up to her face. Arthur wishes he could apologize for his dumb friends, but Uther demands his attention, and in the next few minutes he's busy reciting the necessary words of the pledge.

Satisfied, Uther fixes his glasses, picks up a piece of paper, and reads, “On March twenty-seventh of year two-thousand twelve, Ms. Ganeida Myrddyn requested permission to exercise her right to practice magic according to her religion, in the form of a sacrificial ritual.” He glances at Ganeida over his glasses. "The request was specifically for Merlin Emrys."

It's as if Arthur has been shot in a chest. He freezes, because the date of the request is painfully significant to him... Can it be a coincidence? If so, why is this request not in the database?

“At that time, your request was denied due to the lack of compliance with the requirements for the ritual.”

“Your honor,” Arthur says. “Why is this request not on the record? I wasn't privy to this information.”

Uther cocks his head to the side, pursing his lips. “Maybe because you lack the security clearance level,” he says.

Arthur meets his eyes. “I’d like to familiarize myself with the requirements and what was listed as lacking at the time, _your honor_ ,” he presses. “And let’s start calling it what it is here -- it’s a sharing of magical power. With questionable ethics involved.”

Uther glares at Arthur. “This court abides by every written rule established within the magic community."

Arthur narrows his eyes at Uther. “That’s comforting to know, but I insist. I'd like to see the records of the original request.”

“The records of the original request are sealed and are not available for viewing by private citizens and non-magic users. I believe you represent both here today,” Uther says.

“Objection, your honor; it’s relevant to the case,” Arthur says.

“I'll allow it,” Balinor says. “Let’s hear it.”

A muscle jumps in Uther’s jaw. “Of course,” he says, then thumbs through the pages of the file and starts reading. “Ganeida Myrddyn’s request for the hum... for the ritual was denied on April ninth two-thousand twelve, due to inability to obtain a consent from the magic user Merlin Emrys to complete the ritual.”

So, this could mean one of two things, Arthur thinks. Either Merlin still had at least some of his power left at the time of the request and his magic objected, or the Department had no idea about Merlin's failed ritual and didn't know where Merlin was at the time.

“What’s changed now?” Arthur asks. “I still don’t see Merlin anywhere in the vicinity to give his blessing for this request.”

“What changed,” Nimueh says, “is that Ganieda Myrddyn no longer needs Merlin Emrys’ consent to perform the ritual. Merlin Emrys has no more magic, which takes away his right to object.”

"How do you figure his magic's gone?" Arthur asks, gripping the edge of the table.

"His vessel is empty," Nimueh says with such glee in her voice, Arthur can’t hide his disgust when he looks at her.

"Your honor?" Arthur turns to Uther. "A vessel?"

"Kilgharrah, please." Nimueh gestures without moving her eyes away from Arthur.

Kilgharrah doesn't move.

"You may," Balinor says softly.

Kilgharrah nods, his eyes glow gold, and a small box appears on the table in front of Uther.

Uther opens the box and retrieves an object that looks like a large, opaque stone with uneven edges -- like a stalactite, Arthur thinks.

"This crystal," Nimueh says, "represents Merlin Emrys’s power. As you can see, there's not even a spark of life here. His magic is dead."

"It's not dead." Balinor sends Nimueh a look full of disdain. "His magic can't just die, and you know it. While the realm exists, his magic will always be; untethered, but not dead.”

“Look at you,” Nimueh says, smiling. “Defending something that one day is bound to make you obsolete.”   
  
“You never could see the future, Nimueh,” Balinor says quietly. “It’s always been about what’s _now_ for you.”

“Yes, and what’s _mine_ ,” Nimueh agrees easily, looking at Ganeida. “I don’t see a problem with that.”

This conversation feels old and not something that will ever have a resolution, and quite frankly, Arthur doesn’t give a damn.

“Your honor,” he says, “can we please move on?”

With one look, Uther lets Arthur know how much he doesn’t appreciate remarks criticizing his order in the court, but Arthur’s used to that already. He arches his brow in contest.

“I’d like to return to the problem at hand.” He gestures at the stone in front of Uther. “It appears that because of the vessel here, Merlin is no longer being considered as a valuable entity in the magic community.”

As no one offers a comment to his statement, Arthur continues, “And to that point further, you don't seem to find it necessary to treat him as a person deserving basic human rights, magic or otherwise.”

“I didn’t make up the laws of the supernatural,” Uther says, shifting in his chair.

“Sure, you only execute them.” Arthur pauses and adds, "Blindly, as it seems."

Uther grunts his displeasure but doesn't offer a verbal response.

"I’d like to hear the answer,” Arthur insists, moving his eyes from Uther to Balinor, and then to Nimueh and back to Balinor. “What gave you the right to act superior to the non-magic community?”

“How do you propose we solve it?” Nimueh asks in a cranky voice. “Let the world of magic dry out?”

“No, you’d rather let your valkyries suck us dry.”

“And some of you deserve it.”

“Oh, so it’s up to the court to decide who deserves quality of life and who doesn’t? Or to live at all?” Arthur looks at Uther. “And you’re going along with all this. How can you even sleep at night?”

“It used to be a lot worse,” Balinor says. “The place we walk now is much less chaotic and not as bloody as you’ve come to believe. If anything, our decision to instill the mediation and enforce the rules brought peace to this land. The Balance is very precarious, but it’s there.”

“Does this practice go beyond Camelot?” Arthur asks.  

“No,” Nimueh says, “but if you stop _interfering_ , we might be able to gain more ground.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I need Emrys,” Nimueh answers. “And I am not going to let a little non-magic mortal stay in my way.”

Uther raises his gavel, but Balinor stops his hand. “It’s her spite talking, nothing more.”

“I will have order in this court.” Uther jerks his arm away.

Nimueh rolls her eyes. “You haven’t seen me being disorderly yet.”

“Show me one person who’s looking forward to that performance, bitch,” Gwaine mutters, and thank God Uther decides not to order him to leave, even though he clearly heard him.

Nimueh scowls, boring her eyes past Arthur, and Gwaine grunts.

“Stop.” Arthur moves, blocking Gwaine. “Right now.”

“Or what, you little weasel?” Nimueh laughs. “This court will be a joke without me.”

“This court is becoming a joke with you in it,” Uther says. “Let go of the boy.”

Nimueh flicks her index finger as if getting rid of a bug, and Arthur hears a dull thud behind him.

He’s at Gwaine’s side instantly, reaching to him, but Leon stops him.

“Get back there, Arthur. I’ll take care of him.” Leon checks Gwaine’s neck. “He’s passed out, that’s all.”

Nimueh laughs. “One less big mouth to blabber.”

This time Uther puts his heart into banging the crap out of the table with his little gavel.

“Nimueh,” he says after Gwaine comes to, rubbing his temples, and everyone’s settled down again. “Let me make it simple. If you try to pull one more of your tricks, if you disobey this court one more time, I will postpone the hearing. I will let it go beyond the expiration date, and with Arthur Pendragon’s appeal in place, my previous decision will be void. Do you want that?”

Right there, in that particular moment, Arthur believes that he may start appreciating Uther Pendragon once again. It’s a rare but beautiful experience, and if up until this instant he’d thought that this battle could not be won without getting bloody, he now has hope. Uther Pendragon may be a lot of things, but he is a man of his word, and the fact that he doesn’t bend to one of the most powerful witches of dark magic, makes Arthur respect his father again.

“What nonsense are you speaking?” Nimueh sneers. “Void?”

“Yes, void. And if you don’t believe me, walk out of this room right now and see what happens.”

The air buzzes with tension; it make everyone sober up, take a breath and hold it. No one blinks; Arthur doesn’t think anyone can, the air's charged so tight around them.

Nimueh’s beautiful features turn into a grimace of fury in an instant; she lifts her hand and freezes. Her face turns pink. “Balinor,” she says with a strain in her voice, “let go of me.”

“You will behave, High Priestess,” Balinor says calmly, his dark eyes gleaming with power as he lets the sorceress taste her own medicine. “Or I will make you.”

“Fine.” Nimueh relaxes in her seat somewhat, and the friction in the air eases up as well.

Arthur feels like he can breathe again. He clears his throat and fixes the collar of his shirt. This is not how he expected the hearing to go, and they have Nimueh and her clever derailment tactics to thank for that.

“Your honors,” he says, speaking louder to draw attention back to himself. “I would like to proceed with the move to dismiss Ganeida Myrddyn’s request for the ritual, and release Merlin Emrys from any obligations to the requestor concerning magic transfer. He is not her puppet.”

“Dismiss on what grounds?” Uther asks, wincing at Arthur’s last statement.

“On the grounds that according to the Convention code, such a ritual can only be performed by a magic user once in a lifetime, and Merlin had already gone through such a ritual before. Coincidentally, exactly on March twenty-seventh of last year.” Arthur glares at Nimueh.

“Speculation!” Nimueh cries. “Where’s the evidence?”

Arthur takes a moment to curb his desire to sneer at the sorceress, so he can present his response calmly. “I was there. I was the one Merlin Emrys was attempting to share his magic with.”

“Attempting is the key word, then,” Nimueh points, smiling, and Arthur hates her with the power of a thousand suns at that moment.

“Ms. Cara is right,” Uther says. “We need evidence.”

“Merlin would’ve completed the ritual, your honor, if the person sitting next to you hadn’t interfered,” Arthur proclaims, knowing well that he’s bluffing, but absolutely sure of his guess. “Nimueh, you are the reason Merlin is where he is right now, in the realm. You interfered with the ritual. You almost killed us both.”

“You have no proof! I did no such thing!” Nimueh wails. “Uther, control your son.”

“Can you prove it? Without using unfounded accusations this time,” Uther asks.

“I don’t have direct evidence, no.” Arthur takes a small step back. “But don’t you think it’s a little too strange that Ganeida’s first request for the ritual was filed on the exact day of Merlin’s performing his own? Someone was very sure of themselves and eager to snatch him up as soon as his magic was gone.”

“We have no record of Merlin Emrys actually performing the ritual. We don’t know for certain where Merlin is,” Uther says.

"So his empty vessel is not enough of a clue?" Arthur asks.

"All we know is, it wasn't empty at the time of the first request. Mr. Emrys could’ve said yes to Ms. Myrddyn; we simply couldn’t locate him to obtain his response, so the request was denied," Uther says.

"And then conveniently, something happened and it drained Merlin completely. I suggest we look into the latest events in the realm; something as recent as last week, and I assure you, we will find the answers," Arthur offers.

“And I suggest you think thoroughly next time before making empty accusations against Ms. Cara,” Uther says. “Not only because she is a member of High Court, but also because she wasn’t the one submitting the requests."

“Then why don’t we ask Ms. Myrddyn how she is planning to follow through with the ritual if no one knows where Merlin is,” Arthur says, turning to Ganeida.

Uther looks at Ganeida.

“I object!” Nimueh bellows. “Ganeida has no obligation to explain herself here. She is not on trial.”

Ganeida barely flinches at the sound of her name, her expression becoming vacant yet again afterward.

Arthur’s seething. He’d like nothing more than to push Nimueh off a cliff, while shaking some life into Ganeida. What’s been done to this girl is despicable -- cruel, selfish, inhumane. She is as much of a prisoner as her brother, and Arthur swears to himself that he will set this right. He will help this girl to be free once and for all.

“Do you have anything else to say, Mr. Pendragon?” Nimueh asks, tapping her fingers on the table, her nails making an unpleasant clacking sound. “We’d like to go back to our normal duties.”

“I do,” Arthur says, “I’d like to present to this court the evidence proving that Merlin Emrys cannot be claimed by Ganeida Myrddyn, or anyone else for that matter, but me.”

 

xxxxx


	11. Chapter 11

 

 

xxxxx

The silence that falls in the air is deafening.

It lasts several long, profound moments; then, what at first seemed to be a quiet scoff from Kilgharrah, turns into a dry, throaty laugh. Balinor shoots him a warning glance, and he quickly suppresses his amusement with a cough.

“Quiet!” Uther repeats and turns to Arthur with, “What do you mean, _cannot_? You have no legal ties to Merlin Emrys, that’s a fact.”

“True,” Arthur says. “But what we have is stronger. We are tied by magic. We’ve bonded in the realm, and there’s nothing that can break that kind of bond.”

“When was this?” Uther asks, his hands in fists and brows pulled into one stormy line.

“Two years ago, as soon as we both were twenty-one,” Arthur answers. “You can’t say we didn’t wait.”

“Two years ago you had no access to the realm.”

Arthur smiles. “We found a way.”

“You--” Uther starts.

“No,” Arthur interrupts, raising his head higher. “That’s mine. You will not degrade this.”

Uther's nostrils flare in anger, he opens his mouth to say something, then changes his mind, picks up his glasses from the table, inspects them thoroughly and puts them on. “And, of course, there's proof this bond between you happened?” he asks.

“This is nonsense!” Nimueh screeches. “Bond through magic... I would’ve known!”

“How?” Arthur asks.

“I’m a High Priestess; the realm is my domain,” she states with pride.

“Yet, you failed to notice Mr. Emrys performing a ritual?” Uther ventures with poorly concealed acid in his tone.

Nimueh shuts up with an audible snap.

“Arthur, can you prove the bond?” Balinor asks. He places one hand on top of the other, the sleeve of his jacket rides up and exposes a large golden watch on his wrist. It looks good on Balinor, impressive.  

Arthur takes off his jacket.

He starts rolling up the sleeve of his shirt as he walks to the table, where he extends his arm in a proud display.

“That doesn’t prove anything,” Nimueh scoffs after merely glancing at the mark. “That's barely anything. Doesn’t prove it was with Merlin, doesn’t prove it was through magic. Horses are branded better.”

Arthur wonders if ripping this witch limb from limb will cost him life in prison or maybe he can get off easy with minimum charges. He decides she’s not worth the satisfaction -- however deep -- he might feel by doing so, and is also somewhat mollified by Balinor’s knowing gaze.

He closes his eyes, rethinking his options. His mind works a hundred thoughts a minute, searching, searching.

He snaps his eyes open, looks at sleepy, not-all-the-way-here Ganeida, then at Kilgharrah by the podium: tall, sharp-angled, intense. His friends stare at him with an open expectation that he knows what he’s doing, and he thinks he does.

“I have magic,” he tells the room simply, but the conviction in his voice is surprising even to himself. “I have magic because Merlin gave it to me, and I can prove it.”

“Now you’re grasping at straws.” Nimueh sneers.

Arthur ignores Nimueh’s indignant words and points to the box still sitting in front of Uther. “This vessel. Does every magic user have one?”

Balinor clears his throat. “Every person with magic, yes,” he says, shifting closer.

“Do you have to be registered as such?”

“No,” Uther supplies.

“Does the strength of magic matter?” Arthur asks.

“It doesn’t,” Balinor answers, his eyes darting to Kilgharrah. “But it must be rooted and stable enough to be detected outside of the realm. And you must be able to enter the realm on your own. Why?”

“Then, I’d like to request a search for _my_ vessel. There was a ritual and Merlin shared his magic with me through the bond. He just couldn’t complete the transfer at the time, but I must have my own vessel now.”

“Kilgharrah,” Balinor calls, still studying Arthur’s face.

Kilgharrah smiles. “Yes, sire.”

Just like that time in Balinor’s office, Kilgharrah's colors fade as he slips into the realm, except this time he doesn’t linger on the edge, guarding his master. This time, he disappears.

“You can’t be serious!” Nimueh exclaims, rising to her feet. “He doesn’t have _magic_.”

“We shall see.” Arthur goes back to his table and waits. His heart thrums in his chest, his mouth is dry; he can’t believe his own audacity, but he’s never been surer of anything in his life. He can’t explain it; he just _knows_. Merlin didn’t fail.

“I have no time for this nonsense,” Nimueh says after pacing on the podium behind Uther and Balinor for several minutes. “I’m leaving.” She takes the stairs down the podium, her every step punctuating her anger soundly as she goes, when Kilgharrah makes his appearance suddenly and right in front of her, blocking her path.

There’s a box in his hands that looks identical to the one with Merlin’s empty vessel on the table; Arthur tries to not dwell on that fact. One step at the time -- they _will_ get Merlin’s magic back, but first -- it’s about Merlin himself.

“So?” Nimueh asks impatiently.

Kilgharrah places the box in front of Uther. “Your son’s, Uther.”

All color drains from Uther’s face. He darts his eyes at Arthur, and Arthur smiles, unable to hide the hope and apprehension behind it.

“Please,” Arthur whispers, and it isn’t addressed to his father.

Uther opens the box with an unsure hand, and several emotions play on his face one after the next: disbelief, wonder, fear. He snaps his eyes to Arthur as he lets the cover of the box fall wide open.

There’s a stone in the box, and it glows faintly but steadily in red.

 

 

xxxxx

Arthur’s triumphant feeling lasts only a moment. Later. Much later he’ll try to absorb what this all means for him. Right now, he can’t even be grateful for saving the day. All he experiences is the ache at the sight of two boxes in front of his father -- his weakly glowing vessel, announcing his magic, next to the empty and muted one belonging to Merlin. In Arthur’s eyes, it’s profoundly wrong. He might be in deep disagreement with The Disir’s questionable motives and ethics, but there’s one thing he can’t deny -- the Balance is askew with Merlin’s magic gone.

“Nimueh, I’d like you to please return to your seat,” Uther says, with the gavel ready in his hand.

Nimueh does so reluctantly, shooting searching, calculating glances all over the court.

“Are we ready to make a decision?” Uther asks.

“We are,” Balinor says.

“Speak for yourself,” Nimueh hisses, then turns to Uther. “The evidence presented to the court today is nothing but circumstantial.”

“True,” Uther says. “Nonetheless, I can’t grant Ms. Myrddyn her request while having serious reservations as a result of the provided evidence.”

“You must follow the letter of the law,” Nimueh insists.

“And according to the spirit of the law,” Arthur speaks up, “you must be fair and just. Are you, Nimueh? Fair and just?”

She narrows her eyes at him, and he can almost see how the thoughts turn in her head. Her eyes dart from his face to Ganeida’s and back.

“I pride myself in being part of The Disir,” she finally says. “But this particular request was meant to resolve a serious matter concerning the Balance. Someone has to find their way to join dark magic, and now. The consequences of allowing dark magic to lose its strength are unfathomable. Sometimes, Arthur Pendragon, being _just_ doesn’t mean being _right_. The decision I’m making today must be done for the sake of the Balance, which affects everyone in this room and far beyond.”

“Arthur?” Uther asks, looking at him quizzically.

Arthur hears Gwaine swearing softly behind him while Leon tells him, yet again, to shut up.

Nimueh doesn’t even try to conceal her satisfaction after giving her little self-righteous speech. Her eyes are blazing with the anticipation of a person who believes she’s already won. Balinor stares at Kilgharrah, in deep thought. Ganeida has her hands folded on the table; her eyes are downcast and her face is peaceful.

Arthur shakes his head.

"I am not done," he says. “I believe I have a solution to offer. If the Balance and dark magic being in a minority at this point in time is your only concern…”

“It is my _primary_ concern, yes,” Nimueh agrees carefully.

“Then, your honors, if you please, take a look at the second item on the agenda of today’s hearings.”

Uther straightens the glasses that had slipped down his nose and looks at his paper. “Yes," he says. "Another appeal.”

“Post-factum request, I’m afraid, but I believe it has solid grounds for being reconsidered.”

“I’m listening,” Uther says. “Go on.”

“I’d like you to review the case of Kara Wynn, a good magic user, and Mordred, the sorcerer of dark magic, again. At the time of the initial request, Kara was not of age and had no guardians to grant the transfer. She turned eighteen two days ago. May I approach the bench?” he asks, and Uther nods.

Arthur hands over the papers to Uther, who studies them carefully while Nimueh and Balinor are looking on from either side; the sound of turning pages is the only one in the room for a while. When Uther raises his head, there’s a frown on his face.

“The requestor, Mordred, had already attempted the transfer illegally. I can’t condone such behavior, Arthur. Not only that, he resisted arrest and put your life in danger.”

Arthur nods, not disagreeing. “Yes, the _young druid_.” He stares at his father until he’s sure it dawns on Uther.

When it does, Uther’s hands curl into fists as he tries not to show his instant fury. “I will not--”

“We do not know if it’s him for sure,” Arthur says quietly.

“But you believe--”

“It doesn’t matter. They deserve a better life.”

“To become strong enough to destroy another,” Uther says, pushing the papers away.

“I don’t believe that,” Arthur insists. ”Grant them this and we will never hear from them again. There will be no reason to.”

“There will be others.”

Arthur shrugs. “I will not spend my life afraid. And you shouldn’t spend yours plotting revenge.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“It’s in your hands to make it so.”

“Is your boy teaching you life lessons?” Nimueh asks snidely, but Uther doesn’t pay her any attention, looking straight ahead in thought.

“Mordred has no prior records, is an excellent student, has stable housing. Kara was under treatment for health issues, although her long-term prognosis was not promising.” Arthur bites his lip, studying Nimueh. “Mordred could’ve waited just a little and do it properly. Yet, he didn’t. I’d like to bring him here and ask what compelled him to make such an ill and hasty decision, and then act against the court instead of appealing,” he suggests, bluffing yet again. “It’s possible he didn’t act of his own volition. It especially didn’t feel so when he was able to fight me while restrained by iron.”

He meets Nimueh’s frantic gaze and is absolutely sure he’s hit the nail in the head. She had wanted Arthur dead and found a perfect device to make it happen without getting her own hands dirty. At the end of the day, it would all be swept under the rug under the pretence of prophecy. Prophecy, the importance of which Arthur is just now beginning to understand: the connection between past, present and future, and his possible role in it.

Nimueh and Arthur exchange a heavy look, and both of them know -- Nimueh, that Arthur’s figured her out, and Arthur, that Nimueh knows he’s just seen through her entire plot.

“I’m ready to cast my vote on the matter,” Nimueh says quickly, darting her eyes away. “Uther.” Her voice turns honey-sweet all of a sudden. “I’ll allow it.”

“Will you now,” Uther says slowly.

“Absolutely,” she says, “Young love is precious and eager. It compliments the Balance all the more.”

Uther turns to Balinor. “What is your decision?”

“How can I say no to young love?” Balinor says.

"Then, it’s settled. A new ritual is granted." Uther seals the decision with the gavel against the table.

“Excellent," Arthur says. "Thank you, your honors. Now I’d like to go back to the matter discussed earlier.”

Balinor speaks first. “For the sake of saving time… I’ve heard enough to vote for the decision to overturn the original request. I deem the appeal as valid.”

“I vote in favor as well,” Uther echoes after mulling over Balinor’s response.

Nimueh takes the longest time. When she finally says “I'll allow it,” through her teeth, Uther lowers his gavel one last time, and Gwaine whoops and loudly drums against the wooden bench in a victory beat.

Leon reaches out and clasps Arthur's shoulder. "You did it, partner."

“I thank the High Court for their time and fairness,” Arthur says, struggling to push the words out with his heart stuck in his throat. It’s hard to believe that this part is over. He’s _won._

Kilgharrah whispers something and the boxes with vessels disappear. With the nod to the court, Uther lives the room.

Nimueh walks to Ganeida’s table. “It's over, sweetheart. I'm sorry we didn't get your brother,” she murmurs to the disoriented-looking girl. “But there will be another time.”

“No,” Balinor says, walking up to them. “There won’t be another time. Ganeida, I think you should come with me.”

“Over my dead body.” Nimueh scowls at Balinor.

Balinor cocks his head to the side; the expression on his face is a promise that he’ll gladly help to make Nimueh’s wish come true.  

“What’s going on here?” Gwaine asks.

“You stay out of it, boy,” Nimueh warns him, raising her hand.

“I will not--” Gwaine starts, but no one pays him any attention; all eyes are on Balinor and Ganeida.

“Ganieda." Balinor kneels in front of the girl. “I can’t make you, but I’m asking you, please, come with me.”

“Why, because you’ve been such a great father to her all these years?” Nimueh hisses.

Arthur isn’t shocked. He suspected, of course he suspected -- with the way Balinor has been behaving at every mention of Ganeida, and with the prophecy speaking of a child whose father was a powerful sorcerer. But it’s not Ganeida he’s most concerned with; it’s Merlin, who’s always wondered about his father and dreamed of meeting him, and now he is not here to experience it.

The more motivation for Arthur.

“Wait!” Arthur says. “Just wait a minute!”

He pays no regard to sneering Nimueh, to Balinor, kneeling before Ganeida, to Gwaine, pressing his fingers into Arthur’s arm and trying to hold him off. He pushes through them to the girl because he hopes she has the answer to the question that’s been plaguing him for what seems like an eternity.

“Ganeida,” he calls, taking the girl’s hand. It’s cold and limp, her skin clammy. “Ganeida, look at me.” He shakes her arm a little.

She raises her eyes, looking straight at him, but there’s absolutely nobody home.

“Hell,” he mutters. “What did she do to you? Ganeida, wake up!”

“She won’t respond to you.” Nimueh laughs. She stretches tall, almost regal, her voice clear and arrogant. “She won’t respond to anyone but me. I am the Highest Priestess; there's no one else but me on this side her magic will answer to. So if you need anything from Ganeida, you come to me, Arthur Pendragon.”

“Never,” Arthur swears.

“Are you sure?” Nimueh narrows her eyes at him. “Because I’ve got what you want. You want your _Merlin_ , don’t you? And I have him where you can’t get him without me.”

_The blasted witch._

"You--" Arthur moves to her, but Kilgharrah, standing several feet away from his master, clicks his tongue, shaking his head.

Arthur closes his eyes, reining himself in. One quick, wordless reminder from Kilgharrah grounds him. Whatever the price, he’ll pay it -- Merlin must be found and released.

“Where is he?” he asks in a hollow voice.

“Worried about him, sweetheart? Want Merlin back?” Nimueh stalks around Arthur, brushing her finger across his chest and down his arm, and he flinches. “Ah, yes, the bond… Doesn’t let you sleep at night, doesn't it? Calls for _Merlin_ \-- for its other half. Tortures you awake.” She presses her sharp nail into the meat of his arm; the pain is searing, hot and white, and Arthur bites his lip to suppress a hiss.

“Nimueh, get away from him,” Balinor warns.

“Oh, got your daddy-in-law on your side?” she says. “Wrong side, though, if you want to be where Merlin is.”

Unable to stop trembling, Arthur clenches his jaw to keep quiet.

Nimueh brings her mouth to Arthur’s ear and whispers, “Or I could break the bond. I could set you free. You will forget your Merlin; just like he wanted you to.”

Arthur can’t listen to this. He twists around to face her, fists shaking, voice breaking as he says, “Get the hell away from me, you sick bitch.”

Nimueh tosses her head back and laughs like the deranged person she truly is. Arthur catches Balinor looking at Kilgharrah with meaning he can’t read, and he sincerely hopes it has something to do with burning Nimueh to ashes. He’ll gladly volunteer to spread them to the four winds if he’s only given a chance.

Nimueh, of course, has a different idea. She presses her hand to the table and starts canting a spell that makes everything around them tremble: desks, benches, the floor under their feet.

Ganieda raises her head, frowning at the disturbance, and Balinor fixes his gaze low on her. He starts saying something that comes deep from his belly, words thick, opulent, and urgent. Ganeida looks around, and her eyes widen when they fall on Nimueh. She attempts to get up.

Nimueh glares at Balinor and says something back; Arthur can’t piece even two words together as the language they use is ancient, and the power it emanates is vast and overwhelming. It presses into his chest, squeezes his throat, places enormous weight on his shoulders, and pushes him to the ground. Magic is being unleashed -- and all outside of the realm.

Out of habit, Arthur reaches for the disabler, then stops. Using it on either member of The Disir is unthinkable, but so is the idea of magic going out of control. Arthur searches the faces of people in the room and catches Kilgharrah staring at Ganeida intently, his eyes burning gold and his thin lips moving silently.

Ganeida cries out softly as Nimueh staggers back and breaks the stream of words coming from her mouth. Balinor stops as well and turns to Kilgharrah with a strangely satisfied look on his face. Ganeida makes two slow steps back.

“Ganeida.” Nimueh lunges after her, but Ganeida twists out of her reach.

Gasping, she presses the heels of her hands to her temples and moans, “God. It’s back. It’s back. No.”

“Ganeida, girl, look at me.” Nimueh reaches for her again. “Ganeida! _Listen. To me_ ,” she says through her teeth, as if her patience is being tested.

“No.” Ganeida jerks her hand back. “Get away from me.” She looks up -- at Balinor, then at Gwaine for some reason -- and says with severe, grave conviction, “I _don’t. Want_ it.”

Two things happen at once and so fast, Arthur isn’t sure which part to react to first. Balinor pushes Nimueh away from Ganeida, and while she flails her hands, scrambling and trying to find her footing, Kilgharrah grabs her by the waist and one arm, lifts her off the ground and steps away with her as if in some complicated yet elegant dance. Nimueh’s eyes flash gold as she reaches out to Ganeida, too far away from her now. She snarls at her captor and twists her body to free herself, but  Kilgharrah’s strong and fast. He opens the realm and steps into it with Nimueh securely encased in his arms, and Balinor says something after him in an already-familiar, guttural voice that sounds very much like approval. Next moment, Kilgharrah disappears in the realm, with Nimueh still trying to worm herself out of his hold, and Arthur takes a breath of relief.

He realizes it’s premature when his eyes fall on Ganeida. She’s calm; her long, sleek hair accentuates her already prominent cheekbones and makes her face look thinner, forlorn. She has her eyes on Gwaine, who tells her something in a soothing, hushed tone, and she’s tilting her head, listening with great attention to his every word. The problem is, every time Gwaine takes a step closer to her, she takes a step back. Gwaine speaks steadily, his smile’s soothing, his hands up in surrendering gesture; Arthur wishes he understood what he’s saying. It sounds like a promise, a poem, a song. Gwaine, like a siren, like the _charis_ he is -- heady and mesmerizing --  advances on Ganeida slowly and carefully.

It happens when Ganeida takes the last step back and hits the wall. Gwaine makes the mistake of taking too long of a breath between his canting, and Ganeida  starts screaming. She raises her face up, arms stretched along her sides, and screams, and screams, as if expelling a thousand demons from her body.  Arthur groans. No human can endure such a high-pitched, shrill sound for too long without suffering some sort of physical damage to their system. Gwaine sends Arthur a panicked look, Leon’s already in the shadow of the realm -- a grey, flat silhouette. He’s doing something, his hands and his mouth are moving, and Arthur sincerely hopes he’s casting the necessary spells to at least keep their eardrums intact. He probably won’t last long, given how out of her mind Ganeida seems at the moment.

“Ganeida.” Balinor steps forward, shouldering Gwaine, who pants from exertion, yet refuses to move. “Ganeida, sweetheart, please,” Balinor calls again.

Ganeida stops screaming, but the respite is short. When Balinor reaches out to her, she throws her hand up in a warning motion.

“It’s all right,” Gwaine says, his voice raspy as if he’s just spent an evening cheering on his favorite football team in a stadium full of loud fans. “Ganeida--”

Ganeida takes another impossible step back, and Arthur gasps.

She falls back, her hair beating around her face and neck, her hands stretched forward, fingers splayed -- as if she's warning them to keep away -- and Arthur has no doubt in his mind that she’s just sent herself into a dimension of the realm no person has ever set foot in. Her pale face, pained, dark eyes, and open mouth in a silent “O” as she fades into the darkness are a sight Arthur knows he will never be able to fully shake.

Except.

Except it’s not over. Thanks to Arthur’s foolish, self-sacrificing friends. Arthur doesn’t know how this happens -- how he misses it, but he does. He turns around, still in shock from losing Ganeida, and he hopes not -- _God, please not_ \-- forever, and notes the determined expression on Gwaine’s face. Arthur knows that stubborn, selfless clench of jaw on his friend better than anyone.

“Don’t be stupid,” he warns, to which Gwaine smiles and does exactly what Arthur was afraid of: he steps into the realm, to do -- what else? -- to get the girl.

 

xxxxx

 


	12. Chapter 12

 

xxxxx

Arthur refuses to use the realm when Balinor offers. Yes, they have to talk, but for once, he’d like to interact with Balinor like regular folks, if such a thing even exists in his circle anymore. And there’s the question of whether Balinor even belongs to his circle.

“Leon,” Arthur says, gathering his court papers scattered on the floor. “Go home.”

“Gwaine…” Leon says.

Arthur starts, "Yes, I'll--" at the same time as Balinor says, “Kilgharrah’s already after him.”

Arthur straightens up. “You know this how?”

Balinor sends Arthur an amused glance, and Arthur sighs and asks, “And Ganeida?”

“We’ll find her only when she wants to be found,” Balinor says, looking at him apologetically.

"But is she okay?" Arthur asks. He can’t explain it, but he feels responsible for her. Despite all the trouble this ordeal with Ganeida has caused him, he can’t imagine facing Merlin if something bad has happened to her.  

"She's no longer bound by Nimueh, so in that sense, she is okay. But she's yet to decide how much she really wants to be free. She’ll need time."

Balinor slicks back his hair with his hand, looking somewhere ahead, and Arthur assesses him after the day they’ve had. He hasn’t forgotten the first impression this man made on him. Today, Balinor’s in the dark sportcoat that frames his shoulders perfectly and a simple white shirt, the top buttons of which he had undone as soon as the hearing was over. His salt-and-pepper hair is down and doesn’t look as styled as it had several hours ago, but somehow that only adds to his rugged charm. Arthur sighs; he now knows where Merlin gets his gorgeous looks from.  

“And Merlin?” Arthur decides to ask -- why the hell not. What if the time of riddles is over?

Balinor sighs.

“Let me guess,” Arthur says, “Not that simple?”

Balinor clicks his tongue and smiles briefly. “You got it.”  

Leon leaves with a final nod and, “Call me. Wake me up if you have to.”

“Will do,” Arthur promises.

They leave the Municipalis shortly after, their steps resonating in hollow echoes against the walls of an empty building. It’s getting late; when did evening fall?

“Talk at my place?” Arthur offers.

Balinor shakes his head. “I’d like some fresh air.”

Arthur agrees. “All right.”

“Also, my people are in your apartment,” Balinor confesses. “Warding it to the hilt.”

Not that Arthur likes it, but he does appreciate the concern. “Why?”

“Nimueh.”

“What, Kilgharrah let her go?”

“As he should have.”

“I expected a different answer,” Arthur mutters.

“Why? Crave vengeance? To make her pay for all her sins?” Balinor raises his brows. “Not yet.”

“But with Ganeida and Merlin out there, we can’t leave her on the loose...”

“You really don’t understand what happened tonight, do you?” Balinor asks.

Arthur narrows his eyes at him. “Level with me.”

“You exposed her. Nimueh. Not only can she no longer manipulate Ganeida, she has also lost all the ground she's gained over the past two years. She's not going to give up her plans -- it's Nimueh we're talking about -- but it will take her time before she conjures up something new."

“So you knew about all this?” Arthur accuses.

The look on Balinor's face says it all, and he can’t stand it. He grabs Balinor by the front of his jacket, hauling him up close. "You knew. All this time. You’re such a coward. How could you--”

Balinor doesn’t protest, doesn’t try to pry Arthur’s hands off him. His eyes are unwavering on Arthur’s, mouth parted. It’s as if he’s encouraging Arthur to hit him, to make it hurt, and that’s what stops Arthur. Arthur’s been there -- in exact same position. He has no right to expect anyone to answer to him. He's the one who lost a year. _A year._ Wallowing in self-pity and his own hurt pride.

Balinor watches him and waits, and Arthur deflates and backs away.

“I’m--” Arthur says and brings his hand to his face to rub his eyes.

“If it helps you: I knew some things, but not everything,” Balinor offers.

“Yeah,” Arthur says, unsure if he wants to hear apologies or find out at once that he has absolutely no one left to help him -- he’s come full circle.

“I’ve never talked to anyone about this,” Balinor says after a strained silence.

“I am not your shrink,” Arthur says wearily. “Or your priest.”

Balinor makes a face. “It’s too late for my absolution.”

“And that somehow excuses everything else.” Arthur can’t help the mocking in his tone. “So what now?” he asks, after dragging his feet for a couple more blocks.

“You’ll do what’s right,” Balinor says, “And I’ll do what I should’ve done a long time ago.”

“Such as?”

Balinor glances at him. “Let the prophecy come true.”

Arthur stops so abruptly, someone bumps into his back and swears. Arthur doesn’t pay them any mind. “What?” he asks. “What are you talking about?”

“You must know about the prophecies.” Balinor frowns.

“Well, I know about one. One child, born from a powerful sorcerer, is to threaten the Balance and the realm. Another has to stop him… _her_?” Arthur checks with Balinor.

Balinor looks at him without saying a word; he doesn’t have to.

“Ganeida and Merlin…” Arthur says, slowing his steps.

Balinor nods. “Twins. Mine. And Hunith’s.”

“So it’s true.”

“Yes… I didn’t know,” Balinor adds right away. “Not immediately. And at first, only about Ganeida.”

“Balinor, wait.” Arthur needs a moment to catch his breath, because what Balinor’s suggesting is unfathomable. “What are you saying? You can’t let the prophecy happen! You can’t let them go against each other. This is…” Arthur looks at Balinor with wide eyes. “What is _wrong_ with you?”

“Prophecies don’t have to be taken literally.” A small smile touches Balinor’s lips.

“What’s this? Another fucking riddle I’m supposed to be solving?” Arthur spits furiously through his teeth.

“I’m not your enemy, Arthur,” Balinor says.

“Another riddle it is.” Arthur nods. “Fine. Whatever it takes.” He grabs Balinor firmly by his shoulder and shakes him. “You understand? I’ll do whatever you want me to do, just tell me... Where's Merlin?”

Balinor winces but doesn’t try to free himself; Arthur lets him go first.

“You already know where he is.”

“Realm?”

Balinor nods slightly.

“How deep?”

“Nimueh couldn’t find him,” Balinor says with a sigh. “And with Ganeida, she was stronger than me.”

“So Nimueh was bluffing?” Arthur can’t put into words the immensity of the relief he feels. “She doesn’t have him?”

“Bluffing is all she has left,” Balinor says.

“Even that’s a privilege that witch doesn’t deserve.”

“Yet, she must stay around. As a High Priestess, she's in her rightful place.”

“And what about Merlin and Ganeida? They don’t deserve to be where they belong?” Arthur asks, balling his hands into fists. “Why are you even so sure they’re yours? And why were they separated?”

Balinor stares at the ground for a long time as they walk. “Hunith and I had one week together, twenty-three summers ago. She was…” He grows silent again, and his expression turns wistful. “Nothing ever could’ve come of it.”

“Two different worlds?” Arthur suggests knowingly.  

Balinor nods. “Yes, that. And I have… special ties myself...  that make any other relationship complicated.”

Arthur hums, understanding what he’s talking about. He wants to ask more about Kilgharrah's obvious fixation on Balinor, but that would just be nosy and Arthur’s not big on that, so he lets it go.

“Hunith never tried to find me, but a druid seer had a vision about the upcoming birth of a girl fathered by the dragonlord, and when the talk about the prophecies resurfaced, I made sure everyone knew it was impossible.”

“How many dragonlords are there?” Arthur asks.

“One,” Balinor answers reluctantly.

“So that was a real puzzle,” Arthur mutters.

“I know,” Balinor murmurs, keeping his eyes down. “Of course, druids found Ganeida as soon as she was born. And when they came for her, Hunith managed to hide Merlin from them. They probably didn’t even think to look.”

Arthur winces, picturing the scene of a newborn child being taken from a terrified mother. These are the times when he not only understands Uther, but resents magic himself, and having lost his mother before he’d even had a chance to know her, he’s particularly sensitive to the fact that someone else had had to live as an orphan all her life, while her mother probably cried for her.

“I didn’t know any of that at the time,” Balinor says, sounding like it’s painful for him to talk about. “And when I learned about Ganedia’s existence, I denied she was mine.”

“Why?”

Balinor shrugs. “Easier.”

“You are a warlock. Powerful. Command dragons…” Arthur can’t conceal the resentment in his tone.

“Yes. And would you believe it, it didn’t help. It made things worse.”

“Why?”

“Because according to the ancient magic, dragonlords can only produce sons.”

“What’s wrong with having daughters along with sons? Is that some kind of a curse?”

“In a way. It’s a result of an ancient spell placed on us. It's magic reacting to the prophecy to protect itself and to save the realm."

“But the prophecy doesn’t specifically mention it’s going to be a girl,” Arthur argues.

“There’s more than one prophecy, Arthur,” Balinor says. “Some of them are forgotten for centuries, but they are often tied together. Not just a child born from a dragonlord, but a girl, has been foreseen to cause the destruction of the realm.”

Arthur studies Balinor’s closed-off expression and says, “There’s something else you’re not telling me.”

Balinor doesn’t answer for a while, then says, “I didn’t want to accept Ganeida as mine because that would mean blessing her death.”

Arthur balks. “What?”

Balinor gazes at Arthur, a sad line forming between his brows. “Do you really think Ganeida would’ve survived, even for a minute, if the druids knew for certain who her father was?”

“But they knew, didn’t they?”

“They suspected but didn’t know for sure, so they came to me to ask. I denied any connection and forbade them to harm the child. They may not have believed me, but they wouldn’t go against me, so they chose a different route -- suppressing her magic.”

“Well, that backfired, didn’t it?”

“Yes, it did.”

"And Hunith?"

Balinor glances at Arthur and sighs. "I think she tried to resist the druids, and they blasted her with a spell. For years, she's been slowly but steadily losing herself because of it."

Arthur gasps and fires back an angry, "You let it happen?"

“No! I didn’t know any of this. I told them to _guard_ the child, not take her away, but they were too scared that someone else could get their hands on her."

"Like Nimueh?"

"Exactly her. So they overreacted; you think I would order someone to harm Hunith?"

"With all due respect, sir, I don't know you. You tell me all this, and you sure know a lot, but you've done very little. This is your family. What have you done to support it?"

Balinor rubs his face and shakes his head. "They were better off without me."

"Bullshit! Merlin dreamed about meeting you. He idolized you without knowing anything about you. And Hunith... The state she's in now..."

Balinor meets Arthur's accusing eyes, then looks away. "Even I am powerless against some ancient druid spells, especially when most of the damage has already been done."

"Yeah, good job right there, sir, excellent work--" Arthur remembers something and grabs Balinor’s arm. "But Merlin has been visiting Hunith all this time! The nurses told me. How?"

Balinor grimaces. "Sorcery. Nimueh's work. She had Ganeida disguise herself as Merlin."

“Why?”

Balinor passes his hand through his hair and shakes his head slowly. "Can you only imagine Nimueh's joy when she realized who exactly she was asked to help two years ago? I assume you know the story already."

Arthur nods. "The incident during the spell training, yes. Ganeida ended up under Gaius's care."

"Calling for Nimueh made sense. He did the one thing that was logical. Except it brought Ganeida directly into Nimueh's hands." Balinor sighs. "I should've offered Alice protection."

Arthur doesn't respond. How can he? They've all screwed up majorly along the way.

"Ganeida disappeared, and all this time Nimueh’s had her under my nose and I could do nothing about it. I had to keep avoiding her and denying I had a daughter. How else could I protect her?"

Arthur can think of a few alternatives, but he doesn't offer that advice out loud.

"She wanted Ganeida to hate everyone who’d taken care of her in the past," Balinor continues, "so she made sure she learned about her mother and what was done to her. Nimueh played on Ganeida's fear of being found and turned into a mental patient like Hunith. To gain her trust, she let her visit Hunith, but in disguise. Doing so as Merlin fooled a lot of people and gave Nimueh a lot of time.”

"She really thought this all through, didn't she?" Arthur's anger flares in his chest again and he wants to go find Nimueh, right now, and make her pay for every life she’s toyed with and every hurt she’s caused. "God," he groans.

After a while, Arthur asks, “So you had no clue about Merlin?” He still has a hard time believing what he's learning.

All this time, they’ve been walking the streets of Camelot aimlessly, stopping only at the streetlights. This time, Balinor stops in the middle of the crosswalk and turns to Arthur. Not surprisingly, the green light stays on and on and on.

“I only knew about Ganeida,” he swears. “I learned about having a son last week,” Balinor says. “Just like you, I put two and two together. And then I went to see Hunith.”

"You did?" Arthur asks. "And how did that go?"

Balinor's shoulders slump. "As well as expected. She was able to remember some things. At some point she even recognized me."

"I hope there was some slapping around involved."

Balinor ducks his head and clears his throat. "Hunith is a very protective mother."

"Yeah, like any responsible parent," Arthur mutters and adds after a pause, “Merlin deserves to know about you. And I’m not sure what’s going on with Ganeida, but she deserves to know as well.”

Balinor issues a bitter laugh. “Oh, Nimueh made sure she knows who I am.”

“When?”

“The evening when you and I first met. Your visit spurred things into action.”  

“Ah. She made a spectacular entrance.”

“Always does.” Balinor nods.

“And probably made quite a production out of the announcement?” Arthur asks, wincing.

They start walking again.

“She didn’t try to spare anyone’s feelings,” Balinor says. “Including Ganeida’s.”

“How did Ganeida react?” Arthur asks, trying to imagine what Merlin will say when they break the news to him that his family is a lot bigger than he’d ever hoped for.

“Like anyone who’s been drugged by magic for two years, brainwashed and made to fear her own abilities. What do you think?”

“I have no idea,”  Arthur says.

“She didn’t react like any of us would,” Balinor says.

“Which is?”

“She asked when’s dinner.”

“Fucking hell.” Arthur stumbles to a stop again. “Balinor, listen. What’s done is done. No time to dwell on the past. With your power and position, I have no doubt you have an army of sorcerers trained and waiting somewhere in the backyard. Get them, and I don’t care what you do, find Ganeida and get her the help she needs. Get her to Gaius.”

“It’s not that--”

“ _Fucking_ simple! I know!” Arthur cries. “Stop saying that and _do_ something! Make it simple! It’s your daughter, for fuck’s sake!”

To his surprise, Balinor doesn’t get angry or upset. If anything, he looks fond -- _glad_ , even. “I’m proud of my son,” he says. “He chose well.”

Arthur’s cheeks heat up, and it’s so not a good time to be bashful, especially when he doesn’t feel like giving out any awards to this man for what he’s done -- or failed to do altogether.

“Speaking of,” he mumbles. “Here…”

He pats himself, remembering too late that he never picked up his badge or the second disabler from the security office, and thinks fuck it; he’s got dragons and possibly an army of sorcerers at his disposal if Balinor doesn’t bail on him out of a misplaced sense of his mysterious duties. 

Arthur pulls the choker out of his pocket and asks, “Please charge it for me again.”

"Ah.” Balinor smiles. “It's served you well so far, hasn't it?”

Arthur nods with a reserved smile. “Yes, sir. Thanks for your generosity. Good thinking on your part.”

“I do that sometimes.” Balinor’s smile spreads wider.

“Clearly not often enough,” Arthur remarks, his tone snide and teasing.

“Watch it, son.”

Arthur turns serious. “When did you know? About Merlin being in the realm with no way out?”

“When Mordred requested a magic transfer, I was made aware; it's part of the process in cases like his,” Balinor says. “And it was as if he was _asking_ to be rejected, which was such blatant manipulation on Nimueh’s part, it was impossible to ignore. He is young, but strong.”

“ _Realm six_ ,” Arthur supplies, because of course he’d checked.

“Six, but that didn’t matter to Nimueh.”

“She orchestrated the illegal ritual.”

“And she was the one who made the call to the Department to tell on Mordred and Kara. I was almost late in delivering the artifact to you.”

Arthur processes it all, pieces it all together. “So, she practically handed me to a pissed-off Mordred.”

“Yes. And you know what else she did?”

Arthur isn’t sure he wants to know. “What?”

“She made Merlin drain his last power while saving you from Mordred’s hands.”

“What?”

“When I showed up to relieve you from the artifact, because at that point, only I could... ”

Subconsciously, Arthur starts rubbing his neck at the memory, and Balinor shoots him an apologetic smile.

He continues, “By then, Merlin had fought for your life in the realm for hours, against Nimueh. She played with him like a cat with a mouse. He was too weak to beat her, yet his magic was too strong for her to do anything about him.”

“So, all this was a result of her plotting and waiting for the right moment...”

“Yes, for the right time to bring Ganeida to the brink of insanity so she could take full control of her body and treat it like a vessel. To provoke Merlin, so he was drained completely and she could do the same to him. And to get rid of you, so you couldn’t try to save either of them.”

“Why didn’t you try to save Merlin, to fix this mess as soon as you learned all this?” Arthur asks, still unsure how he feels about Balinor, a sorcerer of good magic, whose methods and motives have been questionable at best.

“Because it’s not my destiny to do so. It is yours. You are their protector.”

“Balinor, how old are you?” Arthur asks, more than annoyed.

“Old.”

“More than one man’s lifetime?”  

“More.”

“Then for such an old guy, you should know better than to expect the world to rely on just one man’s destiny.”

Balinor smiles. “No? Then what do you propose?”

“I propose you charge this puppy to the brim for me.” Arthur points to the artifact. “And call for every sorcerer you have at your disposal to be on standby, because tomorrow, I’m going into the realm and I’m getting my boyfriend back.”

 

 

xxxxx

There’s one more thing Arthur has to do before the day is over.

He flags down a taxi and gives the driver the name of his destination: the Municipalis Hospital.

It’s almost eight and getting dark when he walks into Gaius's domain. Although the time for visitors is over, a quick call to Gaius straightens it out. Gaius did not say no. That’s why it’s easy for Arthur to find out Kara Wynn’s room number and enter it without any interceptions. Kara Wynn is the only person in the room, which has two beds. The second bed is empty, but he can tell someone was sitting on it very recently. He knows who that person is.

“Hello, Kara,” Arthur says, smiling soothingly, politely. “I’d like a few minutes of your time, please.”

Kara looks at him with a terrified expression and stammers, “I’m not supposed to have visitors at this hour.”

“Yet, you just did,” Arthur says cheerfully. “Mordred, you can come out. Don’t get yourself in deeper trouble with me than you already are.”

It takes a moment, but Mordred steps out of the shadow of the realm with a scowl. “I’m not afraid of you.”

“Good,” Arthur says. “Because I didn’t come here today to scare you off.” When Mordred makes a threatening gesture with his hand, raising it up, Arthur adds, “Save your energy, boy. You’re going to need it.”

Mordred stills, eyes still flaring with specks of gold, but not turning into fully-burning fire. “What are you talking about?”

“I came to tell you that the decision on your request to share your magic with Kara has been overturned. You’ve been granted a conditional approval.”

“Conditional?” Kara asks carefully, and Mordred frowns.

“Yes.” Arthur nods. “Unfortunately, your Mordred here broke a rather impressive list of laws of the Supernatural Convention. And you know what that means.”

“I am _not_ going to jail,” Mordred announces hotly. “Kara needs me.”

“Sure does,” Arthur agrees. “And not only Kara. Magic needs you, too. But if you want fairness, you must stop running, you must accept the rules. You are allowed the ritual, Mordred. I’m offering you the chance to make this right. _Take it_.”

Mordred turns to Kara, who looks at him warily but with hope. He raises his eyebrow; she nods slightly, and he sighs.

“But only after the ritual,” Mordred says to Arthur.

“If Kara still agrees to it,” Arthur allows.

“I do,” Kara answers right away. She grabs Mordred’s hand. “Mordred, you must wait a little longer; you lost your strength.”

Mordred shakes his head, looking down at her, his eyes soft. “You know time is not something we can afford.”

Kara's eyes glisten with tears.

Arthur feels for both of them, he does, but this looks like it might take a whole evening. “I suggest you speak with Kara’s doctor. Gaius will be able to assess you both and give you a realistic picture.” He turns to Kara. “I’m sorry for your condition. Gaius really is the best there is. You should discuss this with him.”

Kara nods, still clutching Mordred's hand and sniffling. Arthur hands Mordred an envelope with papers. “All the paperwork you need is here. Speak with Gaius tomorrow morning, first thing. He’ll be expecting you. Then come to the Municipalis and make the necessary arrangements.”

“You’re not lying to us with all this, are you?” Mordred asks, stepping closer to Kara, eyeing the envelope. “If you’re lying, I’ll--”

“Yes, you’ll find me.” Arthur nods. “And you’ll deal with me. Fair enough.”

Mordred concedes after a long, penetrating stare at Arthur’s forehead, and Arthur could swear he hears whispering in his head. He flinches, and the illusion is gone.

Finally, Mordred nods, and Kara looks at Arthur with a smile and says softly, “Thank you.”

Arthur smiles back. “Get well, Kara. Stay well… Mordred,” Arthur says next, “this is your chance. With your magic -- show Kara that it can be _good_ for her, despite the false start. She deserves it.”

Mordred offers him a hand to shake.

Arthur walks out into the warm night shortly after. The early stars greet him readily, blinking brightly in the evening sky. Arthur sets on his path, considering the irony of how while the magic realm is teetering on the edge of losing its balance, he is finally starting to gain his own.

 

xxxxx


	13. Chapter 13

 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

 

xxxxx

There’s no way Arthur can sleep tonight.

He knows he ought to get some rest to be at his best in the morning, and that was the whole point of taking this extra time, but he just can’t settle in any one position or even close his eyes for more than a few seconds.

When he finally falls asleep, it’s peaceful. He dreams of Merlin, of Merlin’s hands on him, of murmurs under the clean, crisp sheets, and of lovemaking. It’s been a long time, and Arthur can’t stop thinking in his dream, as Merlin presses into him and sucks wet bruises into his skin, that it was worth it. His wait was worth it.

He wakes up to strange noises -- clacking, scraping --  timid sounds of someone moving around, and for a moment Arthur thinks he’s still dreaming and it’s Merlin, being all domestic in the kitchen. He stretches in his bed, smiling, manages a raspy, “ _Mer_ \--” and the word freezes on his tongue, because it’s not a dream. There is someone dressed in nothing but a long buttoned-up shirt in his apartment, standing in the doorframe of his bedroom -- and it’s a girl.

Now, that’s a first.

He clears his throat, and says, “Could you at least turn around, please? I’m naked.”

The girl nods and disappears.

Arthur jumps out of bed, and, wrapping the sheet around himself, retreats to the bathroom. He goes through his morning routine (and fuck, some wanking would be so nice after that almost-wet dream, but alas...) at a triple-speed.

“How did you get in here?” he asks through the door. “And why are you wearing my clothes?”

Something drops with a loud skittering sound. He opens the door and steps back into the bedroom. Quickly, he throws on jeans and a t-shirt.

“I thought your father made sure only cockroaches can survive after trying to cross my door.”

He walks into the kitchen; it smells like food is being cooked in there. That’s good; at least he might get a decent breakfast before starting his day.

“I didn’t come through the door,” Ganeida answers quietly, shooting him a shy smile. She has Arthur’s sweatpants on now, and she’s swimming in them. He cocks his eyebrow at her, and she blushes and mumbles, “An outfit malfunction. Lack of options.”

Arthur shrugs and reaches to turn on the kettle. “I was speaking figuratively. I’m sure Balinor’s people did a better job than warding just the door.”

Ganeida smirks.

“Where were you?” he asks, sitting down on the only chair and getting up right away. He brings a bean-bag from the living room and tries to find a comfortable position in it, but his knees are now higher than his nose and he can’t really see what Ganeida is doing, and it’s not a comforting thought.

“Are you okay?” he asks after waiting for a while and getting no answer.

Ganeida keeps turning something in the frying pan while shooting occasional glances at Arthur but doesn’t offer any response.  

“Look, I know not all of us appreciate small talk, so we can forgo that part.” Arthur gets up with a bit of an effort, fluffs the bean bag and checks his work. It still looks like it’s been sat on, no matter how much he tries to reshape it, so he gives up. He’d never understood the point of this particular accessory, obliging Merlin’s tastes in interior design.

For the first time in a long time, Arthur finds himself thinking about Merlin with only a dull pain -- more like a pressure, than anything -- in his chest. There’s a year of longing, and confusion, and almost lost hope, and nothing can remove the stretch of weeks, days, and hours of that ache, but today is a new day, and Arthur doesn’t intend on spending more time than necessary worrying about the past. He knows what he has to do now, and he knows what he wants from the future and who he wants to spend it with, and that’s what he tries to focus on.

Ganeida sets two plates with food of unidentified origin on the table and nods to the one closer to him. “Eat.”

“I’m not sure I should,” Arthur says, bringing the plate to his nose and sniffing it carefully.

“It’s fried tofu. Some onions. Garlic. Tomatoes,” she supplies and picks up her serving.

With only one chair in the room, neither of them are sitting down.

“I’m not going anywhere with garlic breath.” Arthur turns his nose away from the plate.

“Merlin wouldn’t mind,” she says, picking up a fork.

Arthur shoots her a glance and notices mirth playing in her deep-blue eyes -- just like Merlin’s.

“I’m not taking any chances. First impressions are crucial,” he announces and goes to the cupboard for the bread to make toast.

“That’s all I know how to make. Sorry.” Ganeida starts eating.

“Why are you here?” Arthur asks.

“Skipping small talk?” she says. “I’m going with you.”

“No chance in hell,” Arthur says quickly.

Ganeida tilts her head to the side and purses her lips. “You don’t trust me.”

Arthur snorts. “No kidding.”

“You need me.” She places her plate back on the table and leans on the windowsill, crossing her legs and arms. The sweatpants slide below her hips and she fixes them with one hand.

“I’m sorry, did you say something? I have a hard time hearing you,” Arthur says, taking a knife and cutting the crust off his toast, applying a little more pressure than necessary as he chops it. He lets the kettle whistle and spatter for a bit.

“I said you need me,” she says a little louder, and Arthur looks at her with raised brow. Is she really that simple or just want him to think so?

“Okay, yes, I don’t trust you,” he says, because he doesn’t have time for this -- or the patience. “You are not going with me. However, if you really are the good guy here, you can do me a favor.”

“Yes?” Ganeida looks at him, her eyes widening.

“Stay away from the realm, and stay away from Merlin. I will handle it. And if Merlin decides that he wants to have a relationship with you...” Arthur pushes a rough hand through his hair; hell, what if Merlin doesn’t want a relationship with _him_? “So yes... you’ll have to let it take its course. But until then, you need to back off. Oh, and don’t even think about any more rituals involving any kind of sacrifices.”

Ganeida purses her lips and nods, then turns around to stare into the window. “I’m not stupid, you know,” she says quietly. “I know about the prophecy.”

“Well, we don’t know anything for sure, but…” Arthur mumbles.

Ganeida turns back with annoyance on her face. “Don’t treat me like a baby. We both know that as far as prophecies go, this one is just a step from reality.”

“Let’s not take that step, then,” Arthur says. “Stay away from the realm for now.”

“I can’t do that.” Ganeida juts her chin while keeping her eyes on Arthur as he moves around.

“Surprise, surprise,” he mutters. “And why the fuck not?”

“Because he’s my brother.”

“Yeah, well, like I said,” Arthur answers.

“Because he needs my help.”

“I doubt that.” Arthur doesn’t relent.

Ganeida frowns. “Because I’m the only person who can pull you into the realm deep enough to find him and to keep Nemueh off our backs.”

Arthur freezes. He expected that, thought about it, while tossing and turning at night and weighing his chances and options, and each time coming up with only one solution.

“Balinor will help me,” he says, wishing he sounded a little more convincing.

“They’ve known each other for centuries, tried every single trick on each other,” Ganeida tells him. “And they are essentially immortal. There are only a few things they can do to actually overthrow one another.”

“How do you know all this?”

Ganeida shrugs. “I grew up with the druids. It’s part of the Old Religion history. The battles between dark and good magic, and essentially between Nimueh and Balinor, are legendary. I just never could imagine that one of them is actually my blood.”

“And another is a bloodsucker,” Arthur mutters.

“Not far from the truth, actually,” Ganeida agrees, and Arthur shudders.

“Are you serious?” he asks.

“Immortality comes at a price.”

Arthur wishes Ganeida wasn’t smiling as she said it, because that’s just creepy.

“Have you ever...?”

Ganeida shakes her head. “I’ve done some necromancy, and I’m not going to lie, there’s a fair share of dead sheep on my account. But all that was part of the learning process and my unsuccessful attempts to appease the gods so my power stops making me feel like a crazy person all the time.” She raises her eyes to Arthur’s. “Sometimes, it quite literally burns under my skin.”

Arthur stops and looks at the her. For the first time ever, he looks at Ganeida like she’s actually a grown up, mature person -- a young woman with her own feelings and thoughts -- and not some frail girl needing saving or a deranged witch needing slaying.

“I’m sorry,” he says, searching her eyes. “I can’t imagine…”

The open look on her face changes into something else, more solemn, a bit broken. “Sometimes I think it isn’t me it’s happening to, but someone else, and I’m just looking in from the outside. That must qualify me as certifiable, no?”

“That’s just your way of shielding yourself,” Arthur suggests.

“Being in the realm helps.” Ganeida speaks slowly, her gaze loses focus. “I love it there. It accepts me the way I am, and it lets me be who I am.”

“I think I understand, but I still think that for now--”

“But it’s not enough, is it?” she asks, not listening to Arthur. “I should be able to function outside of it as well. Like a normal person. I want that.”

Arthur walks closer to Ganeida and takes her by her chin. “Ganeida, you shouldn’t think of it that way. You said it -- you are who you are. You just didn’t have people around you who could teach you properly. Who understood your power instead of fearing it. You just need help channeling it. And I think I know of someone who can help.”

She perks up. “Oh yeah?”  

“Yes, Gaius -- he is a great mentor. He will challenge you and he will be kind.”

Ganeida pushes Arthur away. “No. No.” She shakes her head. “Gaius wanted me locked up!”

“That’s what Nimueh wanted you to think,” Arthur says softly. He steps back, but not too far. “She manipulated you. You must know that.”

Ganeida’s mouth twitches in disdain. “Oh, I know. I was there. Not all the way at times, but I was there.”

“Then you must know that there are people who can help you and will do so gladly.”

“So, you’re saying trusting people is important?” she asks. Arthur can’t help the feeling that it’s a trick question, but he nods.

Ganeida smiles mischievously, almost flirtatiously -- it’s an absolute replica of the one he loves so much on her brother -- and says, “Then how about you show me by example?”

Arthur cocks his head, smiling indulgently. “Cute,” he says. “But, sorry, the matter is too serious for me to fall for that. If you know about the prophecy, then you must know that it can’t end well for one of you. Possibly for either of you. I can’t let that happen.”  

“Arthur, listen to me.” Ganeida takes both his hands. “I promise you I have no intention of hurting my brother. I want to help. For once in my life I want to do something with my magic that isn’t destructive or mindless. I want it to _mean_ something.”

“I believe you, I do!” Arthur insists, pulling his hands away. “I shouldn’t, God, I probably shouldn’t at all, but I do think you mean it. But the magic in you… It’s untamed, it’s untested. You admitted it yourself that you’re still not sure what to do with it. Just yesterday, Ganeida…” Arthur doesn’t have the heart to finish the sentence.

Ganeida’s eyes brim with tears as she stares at him, listening. She doesn’t let them fall, swiping at them angrily and swallowing with a grimace, as if it’s painful, and Arthur knows how it feels to be rejected.

“Look, I--”

“No.” She shakes her head. “I understand. We’re too different, right? Dark magic is like a _brand_ on your forehead -- to warn people off.”

“That’s not true,” Arthur says, “I have friends who--”

“Right, friends,” she stops him, bitterness ringing loudly in her voice. “But you’ve never been there yourself. You don’t know how it feels to--”

“There were times,” Arthur says, pushing the words between his clenched teeth. “I wished I had _any_ kind of magic. Anything at all -- a curse, even. A spark would’ve been a blessing, I wanted it so bad.”

“Then lucky you, you got that choice! Why don’t you give me mine?” Ganeida cries. Her eyes swirl with gold, and he hears something drop and break in the living room.

“The choice you’re talking about can’t be given,” Arthur says quietly, wondering. “It’s something you make yourself.”

“Well, then I’m making mine, and you can’t stop me.”

Ganeida’s eyes are luminous with such pure, eager power, Arthur steps back, a little peeved and a lot of _awed_ , and although showing it is probably premature, he can’t help himself -- he smiles and nods.

 

 

 

xxxxx

They waste some time shopping, since Ganeida has nothing to wear and can’t go back to her old place -- no surprise there.

To Arthur’s question of what happened to her outfit from last night, Ganeida shrugs and says simply, “The realm.”

Arthur ponders on it.

“Should we be getting something for Merlin? ” he asks, trying not to sound like he’s picturing Merlin naked.

Ganeida snickers. “Are you having some funny thoughts about my brother?” she asks.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” he mutters.

“No, not really.”

“You don’t even _know_ him,” he says.

That comment affects her more than Arthur meant with his remark. The smile’s gone in one instant, the corners of her mouth tugging down. “I think I do, a little. I feel his magic. There, in the realm. It’s _good_. It’s a comfort. It’s…” She pauses. “It helps me forget. I would never harm him, Arthur.”

She turns her face away.

Arthur isn’t sure whether to offer her a hug, or a pat on a head, or what. “There, there,” he says, and ends up kind of doing both. And God, it’s awkward, but selfishly, he thinks that he needs her to keep it together, so he offers her whatever he can.

Also, he must keep it together himself.

“Why don’t you just magic some clothes for yourself?” he asks, to distract them both.

A confused stare answers his question.

He snorts. “You didn’t even think about it, did you?”

She frowns. “No,” she says slowly. “That’s not it. It’s just... I’ve been taught not to rely on it.”

“How do you do it -- ignore your magic? Is it hard?”

Ganeida bites her lip. “Imagine having a terrible itch and being told you can never scratch it. Sometimes it goes away. Most of the time it only itches more, to the point of making you paranoid, and you end up scratching it until you draw blood.”

Arthur can’t say he’s comfortable with the image, but Ganeida doesn’t notice him fidgeting.

“With magic it’s worse,” she says. “You want to take a knife and cut a limb off.”

“Fuck,” Arthur whispers. “How did you cope?”

Ganeida looks at him as if he’s just asked her if there’s life on Mars. “Have you met me?” she asks. “ _Coping_ isn’t my strong suit. But up until very recently, I had no reason to think there was anything worth trying.”

Merlin’s definitely worth it, Arthur believes, but he understands Ganeida isn’t thinking that literally.

“So I think you’re right, Merlin probably doesn’t need clothes," Ganeida says.

“He just needs to be out of there. That’s what he needs,” Arthur says with conviction. He pats his pockets. “Do we have everything?” he asks.

“You have me.” Ganeida smiles.

Arthur slings his arm over her shoulder. “You know what?”

“What?” she asks.

“That’s more than enough.”

Her bright smile is so contagious, he can't stop himself from grinning, and he rolls his eyes at his own weakness.

“Here,” he says, handing her the choker. “Help me put it on.”

She fumbles with it a bit, pinching his skin in the process; Arthur doesn’t make a peep.

“It suits you,” Ganeida says, touching the pendant with an admiring brush of a finger. “Powerful.”

“Courtesy of your father.”  

She nods thoughtfully. “He did good.”

Arthur is amused by the patronizing tone she uses; Balinor has been around the block once or twice, while Ganeida… That remains to be seen, but she’s chosen to help him and he’s chosen to trust her, and so he shall.

“So, what’s the plan?” he asks, as they walk out of the shopping mall. “Apart from entering the realm with a bang?”

“We are?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely.”

“I don’t know where Merlin is,” she confesses. “I don’t think anyone does. I’ve looked, you know.”

“Ganeida.” Arthur stops. “Are you sure you can do this? Just yesterday, you…”

Her white-as-a-sheet face and her screaming flash in his memory as he says it. Arthur doesn’t know how one recovers from the shock Ganeida experienced last night so fast.

“I will never forgive myself,” he adds, searching her face for any indication that she might be unsure. “If anything--”  

“I’m fine. I feel great. For the first time in a very long time,” she assures him.

“So, where were you yesterday?”

“Where the wind meets the sand. It was beautiful, and kind of therapeutic,” she says.

“Wind and sand?” Arthur asks, making a face. “Sand goes places. Especially when there’s wind.”

Ganeida laughs. “God, you’re incorrigible.”

“So, let’s not go with the wind,” Arthur suggests, “Unless it’s the way to Merlin.”

“I don’t think it is.” Ganeida shakes her head. “We need something else here. A clue.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Something undeniably Merlin’s.”

“My bond?” Arthur suggests tentatively.

“Your bond is what has kept you alive when no one else would’ve survived,” Ganeida says. “I don’t know if you realize it, but you’ve already survived Nimueh’s magic once.”

“Well, I can’t take credit for that. That’s Merlin. And Balinor.”

“I know, so that’s not it.” Ganeida slows her step, in thought.

“I think I know,” Arthur says carefully, touching Ganeida’s shoulder. She turns to him with such hope and eagerness on her face, he knows he’s made the right decision in trusting this girl.

He says, “There _is_ something that’s undeniably Merlin’s.”

It’s also Arthur’s.

His heart thrums fast; he swallows and licks his lips, nervous, because he’s never told anyone about it before. The gift and what it meant to Arthur were too private to share.

“There’s this place in the realm…” he says, reaching for Ganeida’s hand.

She grabs on trustingly and squeezes his fingers in encouragement, and that’s all he needs as he does something he’s never done before -- he opens the realm on his own.

 

 

 

  
 

xxxxx

He holds Ganeida back, not letting her rush ahead, as the key here is to linger, to wait, and let it find _them_.

Because the _subrealm_ is a fickle, capricious thing.

Arthur’s hand goes clammy in Ganeida’s. He welcomes the soft breeze that’s like a warm breath across his face, although this is not it -- not yet -- the feeling he’s waiting for. He takes another, infinitesimal step; the air oscillates around him, and then he feels it. The tremble, the warmth -- the call of magic.

“There,” he whispers, and slowly turns his head to Ganeida, afraid to spook it. “Do you feel it?”

Her eyes widen, and her mouth goes a little slack in wonder. “Oh," she breathes. "It’s Merlin’s, no?”

Arthur grins. “Yes.”

“Arthur, this is so… it’s so…” Ganeida tries several words with her lips, but they don't form properly.

“I know... Is this good? Can you do something here? I know it’s not much.” Although it’s _everything_ to Arthur.

“I will try.”

She does something with her hands. Moves them -- first in a circling motion, then spreads them as if stretching something out, as if she’s pushing the boundaries of the subrealm. Her breathing is shallow, she’s pressing her lips together in concentration, and her eyes are swimming with gold as she looks ahead. Arthur’s watching her with fascination.

“All right,” she finally says, seeming satisfied. “I hope this is enough.” And she crouches down, gesturing to Arthur to do the same. She presses her palm down to the ground, and Arthur mimics her.

“Listen,” she says.

Arthur isn’t sure what she means, but he tries. He waits, holding his breath for as long as he can, but nothing’s happening; he can’t hear anything, and all he feels under his hand are dust and cracks on the ground, rough against his skin. He looks at Ganeida, frowning.

"Arthur, it's _Merlin_  -- his magic," she encourages him. "It's within you, too. Let it flow."

Closing his eyes this time, Arthur concentrates on how he feels inside, but that's the thing. He's never been trained as a magic user, never learned any spells -- didn't even think to try, convinced there was no use. He made sure to build his muscles and to learn the laws, and he had his artifacts to carry him over the edge of the realm, but never on his own.

Arthur shakes his head. "I'm sorry, I must be doing something wrong."

“Oh no.” Ganeida smiles. “You’ve done well.”

Still crouching, he touches the choker on his neck, remembering it for the first time since they came here, and as he does, the air starts trembling around them. He sees it -- like heat quivering above the ground on a hot summer day -- giving and taking against some invisible pressure. It buzzes against Arthur’s skin, and he wouldn’t say it’s the most pleasant feeling. Subrealm has always, always been good to him before.

''What's happening?'' Arthur asks.

Ganeida widens her stance and curls her fingers into fists. ''It’s Balinor,” she says. “He’s building protection against Nimueh, and he is not doing so alone. It will hold for while."

Arthur jerks upright and stops, afraid to lose his connection with the subrealm.  

''What does it mean?”

“He’s buying us time.”

“For what?”

“Don’t be dim,” Ganeida says. “To get out of here.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” Arthur juts his chin. “Not without Merlin.”

“Definitely dim.” Ganeida nods to herself; her lips stretch in a teasing smile. “I don’t know what my brother sees in you.”

“Hey!”  Arthur reaches to tug her ponytail, but she jerks away just in time, laughs, and starts running.

“Ganeida!” Arthur freezes for a moment, stunned by the turn of events, and, having no choice, takes off after her, trying to catch up with her, but hell, she’s fast.

They breeze through the first level without slowing down, and they keep going. Arthur turns his head around, watching the colors flicker and change, feeling the ground under his feet go from slippery and gooey to firm, and then invisible. It’s _level three._

The air whistles in his ears, prickles his skin, bites at his throat. _Four_.

It turns quiet suddenly -- an eerily deafening silence greets them next, as if they’ve dived into a giant cotton ball, but it’s not cozy here by any means. The air is stiffling and Arthur’s growing short of breath; his legs burn as if he’s running through sand, but he pushes through it, refusing to slow his pace.  _Five_ \-- and he’s amazed.

“Hey, Arthur, catch!” Ganeida yells and throws him something.

He catches it, thanks to his good reflexes, but can’t figure out what it is; they are still moving too fast. He can’t tell how many levels they make it through after that. When they slow down, Arthur’s glad -- although he’s on a mission, he’s only human, with very little magic. The determination and hope that he is _needed_ \-- that he is what Merlin still needs -- keeps him going. That, and the amazing girl striding next to him, who found the way to distract him to the point of making him forget that he’s only human, with very little magic.

“A cookie,” Arthur asks when he’s able to see what’s in his hand, now crumbled. “You’ve thrown me a cookie?”  

“Yes,” Ganeida says, looking not a little bit tired. “You didn’t eat.”

“I’ll eat later,” he says, sending a piece into his mouth anyway.

“How does it taste?” she asks.

“Stale.” He crinkles his nose in disgust.

“Nothing’s going to taste good here. But it’s still fuel. Eat,” she encourages him.

“How does one survive here?” Arthur asks, finishing the treat. He means Merlin, of course, dreading what state he might find him in. When he finds him.

Ganeida smiles. “ _Magic_.”

He rolls his eyes.

“Listen--” he starts, but she interrupts him with, “Shhhh.”

They both freeze. Nothing seem to be happening, until Ganeida turns to him with a strange expression on her face. Her eyes glow, and she’s calm -- too calm, almost blank-faced. And then the corners of her mouth slide down into a forlorn curve.  All this reminds him of Ganeida from yesterday, and it freaks him out.

“Ganeida--” he tries.

“Arthur--” her voice breaks. “He is here.”

Arthur’s hand shoots up to the pendant on his neck; he curls his fingers around it, and the edges of it bite into the meat of his palm. It’s instinctive, because the realm is not his domain. He’s getting low on energy and the choker helps -- Balinor’s power helps. It starts flowing with renewed vigor, and Arthur feels that this time Balinor charged the artifact not just with ancient magic, but added something else -- his pride and faith in his kids, and his trust that Arthur will use it right.

Arthur holds on to the pendant to draw strength from it and to anchor him, because the way Ganeida looks at him right now is shattering his heart to pieces.

“Where is he?” Arthur doesn’t recognize his voice, bleak and hollow.

“I don’t know if you want to see this,” she says.

“Where. Is. he,” Arthur says through his teeth.

He refuses to look away; he refuses to move an inch. Goddamnit. Arthur’s knees lock and his heart starts pounding again, the blood pulsing heavy in his temples in time with the words playing in his mind, _He is alive. Alive. Alive_. Like a prayer.

Ganeida draws a deep breath and raises her hands in front of her; she half turns them, palms facing the ground. With eyes still burning, she starts canting. Arthur follows her gaze and sees that the dirt at her feet starts moving, as if alive. Ganeida’s voice goes higher as she stretches her fingers towards the ground. Her hands shake. Arthur watches what her magic does to the earth at her feet: raises it higher, forms it into shape. It contours around what he now recognizes as legs, hips, arms, shoulders, neck -- and at last -- a face.

Ganeida stops canting and slumps down on her side, breathing shakily, while Arthur drops on his knees in front of the body caked in the dry brown mud. Hurriedly, yet as carefully as he can, Arthur starts picking the dirt off, scratching at it, fingernails breaking, and he doesn’t feel it, doesn’t care. He frantically scrapes and chucks the pieces off the body's chest, recognizing the logo on the shirt that used to be black and now is dusty-gray. It makes him want to sob, but he reels himself in. He sends the dirt flying as he cleans the neck, vigorously combs his fingers through the hair, light brown from the mud caked into it as well. Then, moving down, he presses his fingers over where the mouth should be, the eyes and around the nose, breaking the thin layers of crust and brushing them quickly, carefully away. And here it is -- the face he hasn’t seen, hasn’t touched in over a year -- ashen, cold, and incredibly, painfully dear. Arthur can’t stand how lifeless, how still it is. With the dry mud all over his hair and the void expression he’s barely recognizable. But it is him.

Arthur roves his eyes all over him again, whispers, “Merlin,”  and with a shuddering breath, presses his mouth to Merlin’s dry, chapped lips.

Merlin smells like dirt, and faintly of what Arthur can only describe as candle wax -- sweet and musky. There’s no response from Merlin -- not a single twitch of a muscle, not a flutter of a lash. Arthur searches his face for any sign of life and can’t find one. Pressing his index and middle finger in the hollow between the windpipe and the large muscle of Merlin’s neck, he checks for a pulse, but all he feels is a barely-there warmth, which might be the result of Arthur’s feverish contact.  

“ _God_ , Merlin, please,” he begs.

Ganeida makes a noise, drawing his attention to her. He hopes she has some suggestion to make, but one look at her kills that hope instantly. Her expression is one of immense guilt and pity.

“No,” Arthur says. “Don’t look at me like that. Do something. You said you can. Bring him back.”

“Arthur--”

“No! It’s not too late. I would feel it. He is there. I know it,” Arthur insists. “Do something!”

As Ganeida starts pacing in front of them in thought, he brackets Merlin’s face in his hands, leaning close. “Merlin, don’t give up, love. _Please_ ,” he whispers. “Please, Merlin. I beg you.”

Merlin’s gaunt, motionless face, the unnaturally blue lids of his closed eyes, visible even through the layer of dirt, the cold of his fingers when Arthur finds them and squeezes them, it’s -- it’s unbearable. Hating, _hating_ what’s become of Merlin, made him this fragile, too breakable, Arthur pulls him into his lap. Careful, slow, _reverent_ , like he’s the most precious thing -- and he _is_ \-- Arthur brushes the hair away from Merlin’s face, wipes the dirt off his brows and off his cheeks -- razor-sharp bones with hollows of skin beneath them. Arthur doesn’t think he’s ever loved him more than at this moment.

“You’re unbelievable, Emrys, you know that?” he says in a voice that sounds nothing like him. He wants to sound strong for both of them, but a lump the size of a planet is stuck in his throat, and it hurts when he talks. “Who gave you that idea? Hiding in mud?”

“It’s not mud to him, Arthur,” Ganeida cuts in, voice soft. “He was desperate to find magic. Earth is the element most generous with it, and easiest to draw from.”

Arthur closes his eyes, trying to center himself. It takes him a long, long time, but when he lifts his head to look at Ganeida again, his focus is firm and sharp.

Ganeida must be reading the determination in his face. "What?" she asks.

Arthur locks his eyes with hers. “I want you to do the ritual," he says. "Share your magic with Merlin. If you were ever up for it, then do it now.”

Ganeida’s face falls; she shakes her head. “I can’t, Arthur, I’m sorry.”

“Fuck! Why not?” Arthur is one step away from hating her again. “I don’t care what magic he is. If it gives him life, it’s good enough!”

Hurt flashes in Ganeida’s eyes, but she doesn’t respond.

“Why not? You told me you want to help! Then help him! God,” Arthur groans, clutching his hair. “I’ll do anything you ask. If you are worried about the prophecy, I swear to you I will protect you. I will not let anything happen to either of you. Ganeida, please!"

“Arthur, it’s not that I don’t want to. It’s impossible.”

“Why?”

Ganeida sinks to her knees in front of Merlin; she digs her hands into earth, curling her fingers into dirt. “You already know the answer yourself -- he’s already done the ritual once."

"If you're worried about legal ramifications," Arthur insists hotly, "I will never tell. And I can defend you!"

"No, Arthur, I'm not worried about that for one second. It's magic," Ganeida says. " _Magic_ won't allow it. It cannot be done again.”

Arthur sits back on his heels with Merlin still on his lap, all air out of Arthur's lungs gone. He closes his eyes.

“This is not happening,” he whispers. “This can’t be it.” He looks up at Ganeida again. “What happens if he stays here for a while longer? Will his magic come back to him?”

Ganeida considers the questions and sighs. “I don’t know. No one without magic can survive in the realm, and at this level, for long. I can’t believe he did for this long. Without a ritual, I’m not sure he can ever draw it back on his own.”

Arthur doesn’t give up. “What if we pull him lower? All the way to the first.”

“And right into Nimueh’s claws?” Ganeida asks. “She’ll destroy him. And then it will be just a matter of time before she takes over his magic.”

“If we guard him. Balinor, you. Me. We will keep him safe until he’s better.”

“Arthur, Merlin is magic. He can’t get better without it. His body will eventually shut down. It already is.”

And then it hits Arthur. He looks down at Merlin’s pale face. Even with dirt smeared all over it, he’s still beautiful. He’s still his Merlin. Arthur smiles.

“I'm wondering,” he says. “Since the aforementioned ritual between us was never completed, but part of the magic was rooted inside me, can it be transferred back?”

“Using the same bond?” Ganeida asks, biting her lip. Some spark returns to her eyes.

“Absolutely the same. Nothing changed. No one moved on.” Arthur prays he isn’t too far off on Merlin’s behalf.

“I’ve never heard of such a thing, not that I know a lot about it to begin with,” Ganeida starts. “But I don’t see why not.”

“How dangerous is it?” Arthur asks.

“I assume very, considering how little magic you have in your possession and how weak Merlin is. Weak doesn’t even cover it.”

“Do we have any other choice?”

Ganeida and Arthur fall quiet, both thinking, weighing the options and the chances, and both shake their heads. There’s none.

“Then I’ll do it,” Arthur says. “And you can stop it any time if something goes wrong,” he adds, not really believing it’s possible, but not able to change his mind.

Ganeida kneels down next to Arthur and looks at Merlin. “This is not how I wanted to meet my brother.”

“Yeah, well, he’s unconscious, so this can hardly be called a meeting. You’ll get your chance.”

“Good point.”

Arthur gives her a half-smile -- best he can offer right now.

“I have no clue what to do,” he says, and the realization sends him into a panic. “Do you know?”

“I think it’s fairly simple in terms of execution," Ganeida says. "There are only a couple of conditions. I need to know the spell, which I do -- Nimueh made sure of that -- and you need to be--"

Arthur leans over Merlin, placing his hands on either side of his head, and swings one leg over Merlin’s hips to straddle him. He lowers himself onto his elbows and cradles Merlin’s head in his hands. He remembers it now. “This is how you do it, isn’t it, Merlin?” he whispers, kissing him brief and soft on the mouth, and presses his forehead to Merlin’s while holding him firmly by his neck.

“I’m ready,” he says and closes his eyes.

“Then repeat after me, word for word.”

Ganeida starts the spell.

 

 

 

xxxxx 

Something tickles.

Arthur swats at it, hitting himself in the face.

“Ow,” he complains, but the tickling starts again.

With a groan, Arthur rolls around, burying himself into a pillow, which for some reason is not there.

That’s unexpected.

He’s nose-deep in dirt, and someone’s making fun of him, now tickling the side of his neck and laughing softly. The sound of it is so familiar and dear, Arthur wants to cry.

Maybe he shouldn’t believe his ears, but he wants to. He so wants to believe his quest for Merlin was a victory that he doesn’t wait for another moment -- he rolls over to the source of the laughter and opens his eyes. The first thing he sees is a shadow blocking the sun. When the shadow moves, still making small laughing noises, he has to shoot his hand to his eyes, shielding them from the bright sun, unhappy that it prevents him from seeing clearly.

“Am I dreaming?” he asks.

He gets punched in the arm.

“Ow!” he says again and then, “Oomph,” as he’s pulled into a sudden embrace, desperate and engulfing.

“Does it feel like you’re dreaming?” He’s asked sweetly at his ear, and he’s let go again -- too quickly for his liking.

“It feels like I just woke from the dead,” Arthur jokes breathlessly.

The laughter stops abruptly. “Not funny.”

Arthur raises on his elbows, squinting. “So, you’re real? I’m not hallucinating you again, am I?”

“When did you hallucinate me?”

“That time in the realm,” Arthur says. “After the druid boy almost got me.”

“Yeah… No… That wasn’t a hallucination.”

Arthur sits up straight. “You… You were there? That was really you?”

“Kind of, yeah. I’m sorry... God, I missed you, Arthur.”

“I-- Why did you never tell me?”

“I wanted to, but…”

“What?”

“You’d have refused, and I couldn’t let you die.”

“Is that why you almost died yourself?”

“It wasn’t supposed to go that way. It was… I was interrupted.”

“I want to know one thing, Merlin.”

“Yes?” Merlin leans forward, and Arthur finally sees his eyes, framed by long lashes light from dust, and guarded.

“Up until a week go, you still had a bit of magic left. You could have left the realm… Merlin, look at me.”

“Yes.”

Arthur can’t stand the shattered look on Merlin’s face, but he must know. “You stayed here on purpose. Why did you leave me?”

At least Merlin doesn’t avoid Arthur’s eyes now. “This was the only way to protect you. This is where the vision was supposed to come true. And I made a promise.”

“I didn’t need protection. I needed you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Arthur nods slowly, failing to find something else to say.

And maybe the words can wait for later. For now, he wants just one thing. “Let’s get out of here.”

 

 

 

  
 

xxxxx

The reality is harsher than Arthur was prepared for.

They drive straight to the hospital. Even bone-weary, Arthur isn’t as exhausted as Merlin. Merlin is dead beat and he’s thin -- skin and bones, really -- and he’s quiet. Things don’t improve, even after a week of Merlin being hospitalized.

That’s when Gaius tells Arthur that he thinks Arthur should take a break from coming with visits, because Arthur’s presence overwhelms Merlin. After his visits, Merlin sends away all his meals and refuses to speak to anyone. Not that he's talkative to begin with.

Since that initial conversation, Arthur and Merlin haven’t broached the subject of the ritual or the status of their relationship. They haven't broached any subjects, because they haven't talked at all.

“Gaius, what can I do?” Arthur asks, hands buried deep in his pockets, lips bitten raw. “I can’t just…” He looks away. Not seeing Merlin is an unbearable thought. As painful as the silence is between them, he can’t imagine that Merlin doesn’t want to see him.

“He needs time, Arthur.” Gaius sighs. “We don’t know what he’s gone through.”

“He needs _me_ ,” Arthur tells Gaius, while in reality it seems it’s the other way around: Arthur can’t spend a day without Merlin, while Merlin can’t stand Arthur’s presence.

Gaius doesn’t argue; he just says, “Give him time. If he doesn’t eat, he won’t heal, and you know, with so little magic, he…”

Arthur knows.

So he stops coming.

 

 

xxxxx

 


	14. Chapter 14

 

 

xxxxx

xxxxx

Arthur is not one for being overly melodramatic. If anything, he’s a realist.

He already knows that life’s not fair, that not every story has a happy ending, and sometimes you just have to let things go. Sometimes, even if you try really, really hard, things don’t work out the way you hope. Sometimes, giving up hope is the only way to survive.

It’s been a month since Arthur's last visit to the realm. Three weeks since he last went to see Merlin. It feels like he started a new countdown of his life, but without a point of time reference ahead. Time just moves on and he moves along with it. Days stretch -- a slow, thin thread of minutes and hours -- like water in a drying creek on a winter day.

He tries to change his daily routine: getting up a little later, going to sleep a little earlier. To help keep his head clear, he now runs twice a day, in the mornings and the evenings. He buries himself in work. When he thinks about it, it's not much of a change for him, although some things are different.

As agreed, Gwaine checks himself into a program to help with controlling his dependency on magical substances -- Arthur included, Gwaine likes to joke. Arthur doesn’t find it funny.

Ganeida surprises Arthur by joining the training program at the Department again, starting with the basics and requesting Gaius as her mentor. Gaius is so flattered he forgets to say no, but it’s a good thing, because he refuses to baseline her. Instead, he's working on creating a program just for her, so she’s able to practice her control in a well-measured, slow-paced environment, which should help her gain confidence faster. Arthur finds that he was, for once, right about something: Ganeida doesn’t need to be told how to magic; she just needs someone who doesn’t try to change her, who is kind. And not just to her, but to her magic as well.

There also seems to be something happening between her and Gwaine. It’s endearing to see how careful and almost bashful he is around her whenever she drops by after her training sessions. If Arthur didn’t know Gwaine any better, he would say Gwaine’s courting her. She doesn’t seem to mind.

The thing is, Arthur misses Merlin. Citing patient-doctor confidentiality, Gaius had refused to share with Arthur anything beyond, “He is getting there.” That made Arthur livid, because he misses Merlin with an intensity not found in words. The pain of getting up in the morning with the knowledge that Merlin is fine, he really is okay -- and he doesn’t need Arthur to get that way -- is crippling. Somehow he finds it in him to keep going.

Arthur does move out of the apartment. It’s now Merlin’s. Heavily warded, with Merlin’s things still where he left them fourteen months ago, and in convenient proximity to Gaius’s clinic for follow-ups, it’s really the best place for him. Arthur tells all this to Ganeida while pressing both sets of keys into her hand and asking her to pass them on to Merlin.

“Why?” she asks.

“Doctor’s orders,” Arthur explains patiently. “Has… has he asked for me?” he inquires, and wants to slap himself for it when Ganeida bites her lip and shakes her head.

“Gaius limits all contact. He thinks Merlin’s too emotionally unstable to handle too many visitors. But he is going to get better, Arthur. We were on time.”

Arthur nods. “So, you’ll keep an eye on him, yeah?”

“Who’s going to keep an eye on you?”

“Me?” Arthur bestows upon Ganeida the brightest smile he can muster. “I’m unsinkable. Don’t you know?”

Ganeida offers him a look full of sympathy and something else, like regret, as she says, “Sorry.”

Well, it fucking hurts, but Arthur isn’t. He doesn’t regret a day of his life anymore. He just hopes that she and Merlin are working things out. They must, considering their shaky past and the need to keep things civil to avoid any major catastrophes involving magic and the future.

Arthur has no more magic.

Merlin doesn’t call.

 

 

xxxxx

“New assignment?” Gwaine asks, peering over Arthur’s shoulder, but not hovering too close.

“Yeah.” Arthur frowns, reading the briefing in his hand. “University students again. I don’t think you alone are going to cut it this time.”

“Going with me?” Gwaine asks with a hopeful smile.

“Take Galahad.”

“Arthur--”

“On second thought, take Leon as well.”

Leon squints his eyes, assessing Arthur’s grim expression, and nods.

“Arthur--” Gwaine tries again.

“Am I not giving you enough people?” Arthur asks, his jaw clenching.

“It’s been weeks,” Gwaine comments in a low voice, glancing at Galahad and Owain talking in the corner. “You should at least--”

Arthur grabs Gwaine by his shirt, pulling him close. “Say it. Call me a coward to my face.”

Leon steps in their space instantly, shielding them from Galahad and Owain before they notice anything is going on.

“Arthur,” he murmurs in warning, though he doesn’t try to physically break them apart.

Arthur sucks in a sharp breath and lets Gwaine go. “Get out. Do your job.”

Leon gives Gwaine a small nod. Gwaine lingers only for a moment, giving Arthur a measuring look, and leaves, slamming the door. Leon goes a few minutes later, followed by the rest of the team.

Arthur stands in the middle of the empty room and realizes, belatedly, that this is the first time -- ever, probably -- he hasn’t felt even a nudge of Gwaine’s magic, annoying or not.

The chasm in his chest splits wider.

 

 

xxxxx

When Leon reports to Arthur that the gathering near the university is about to turn into an altercation, Arthur informs Uther, since the procedure calls for it, and rushes to the location himself. When he arrives, Uther’s people are already in action, dousing the demonstrators with cold water. And there must be something else in it, because several dozen students end up in the hospital, complaining of skin burns and blurry vision.

“You authorized this!” Arthur thunders in Uther’s office later that evening. “On peaceful demonstrators!”

Uther has his hands folded calmly on the table, an expression of boredom playing on his face. “The situation called for it.”

“We had it under control! When I called you, I wasn’t asking you to poison innocent people!”

“Not all of them are that innocent. Some of the participants tried to use cold steel arms on my forces. They were effectively stopped.”

“You used illegal weapons on your own people!” Arthur paces in front of Uther’s desk, raging, although some part of him knows that his father is not the only person who should carry the blame here. He should’ve been there with his team from the beginning. If he weren’t so hell-bent on avoiding the realm, he could’ve prevented this disaster. He’s a fucking coward.

“Sorcerers using dark magic to overpower me are _not_ my people. They learned a lesson today that I hope they will remember.” Uther rises to his feet. Several strands of his grayish-blond hair fall on his forehead, and there’s a dab of spit glistening on his chin.

“What you did today was inhumane,” Arthur says quietly but firmly. “It doesn’t make you better.”

“It makes me a strong leader. I don’t need magic to show them where the power is. Neither do you.”

Arthur snaps his head to meet Uther’s challenging, hard stare. Oh, so that’s what this is about. He shakes his head and smiles bitterly. “You’ve got it all wrong.”

Arthur does need magic. Unfortunately, magic doesn’t need him.

The press runs amok the next morning, reciting the events of the previous day. Of course, there’s no mention of supernatural, but there are old pictures of some of the students captured in the least flattering situations. Drug use and unfortunate upbringing are cited as reasons for their despicable behavior at the protest. Arrests are being made; justice will prevail.

Although Uther has control over the entire media enterprise in Camelot, he can’t shut everyone up. People talk, people question. An article comes out two days later in a small independent newspaper, detailing the events of that afternoon in a completely different light, and the pictures that accompany the story shake Camelot's communities to the core. The article calls for Uther Pendragon’s resignation. The author of the piece is Morgana LeFay.

 

 

  


xxxxx

“Arthur, what?” Leon asks, seeing how Arthur keeps wincing and adjusting the sleeve of his jacket.

Arthur brushes him off. “Eh.”

“Tell me.”

Gwaine is there, right away, leaning on the edge of Arthur’s desk and narrowing his eyes at him. The relationship between them is strained, but it’s mostly Arthur’s doing at this point. Gwaine still hovers -- a lot more subtly, but he’s still there. It’s Arthur who chooses to be an asshole about it and refuses to offer a truce.

“So?” Gwaine prompts, nudging his foot.

“All right, fine, it’s bothering me again,” Arthur admits.

“Arthur--”

“Gwaine, it’s fine, it is what it-- No, don’t even think about it.”

“What? I’m not doing anything!”

“Right. Just so you know, it doesn’t help. Don’t waste your energy.”

“When did it start?” Gwaine asks angrily.

“When Gaius activated it using the pendant,” Arthur replies.

“Have you tried to use it again?”

“Yes, it doesn’t help,” Arthur lies. The artifact is completely drained. It has been since the day of Merlin’s rescue, and he hasn’t touched it since. “Nothing can help.”

“Still, Arthur, let _me_ try,” Leon says softly.

Resigned, Arthur rolls up his sleeve. The mark on his arm, now more of a welt, is furious-red and painful even to look at. Arthur hisses when Leon brings his hand to it.

“I’ll be careful,” Leon murmurs apologetically. “Just let me…”

Arthur closes his eyes, giving in and greateful for the respite; the question is, how long this can go on?

“If I didn’t know it was magic, I’d say it’s severely infected, Arthur,” Leon says after calming it with a healing spell. It curled over the mark thickly, like ointment, helping not just the pain, but also with Arthur’s cluttered mind. “This bond…”

“Is fucking killing him,” Gwaine says furiously. “Arthur--”

“I’m fine.” Arthur rolls down the sleeve, nodding his thanks to Leon. “It will go away. You know. Eventually.”

“Are you stupid?” Gwaine leans closer to Arthur’s face. “You can’t be that stupid.”

“What do you want me to do?” Arthur tosses his hands in the air. “I can’t break it!”

He _won’t_ break it. It’s all he has, dammit!

“That’s right, you can’t break it. Because if you even fucking tried, you’d die!”

For one ridiculously weak moment, Arthur thinks that maybe it wouldn’t be the worst outcome. Because he’s sick. He’s absolutely sick without Merlin. His heart is giving out.

“Gwaine, I told you to stop it,” Arthur says, letting all the air out of his lungs in such a long exhale, it seems to go on forever. It doesn’t help, though -- his chest feels heavy as lead.

“Stop what?”

“Your magic, stop it.” Arthur rubs his forehead. “I already feel like crap. I don’t need you amplifying it.”

“I’m not doing anything. In recovery, remember? Only for work-related, registered activities for now,” Gwaine says.

Arthur looks at him with annoyance.

“I swear to you, Arthur, I’m not using, and I’m not touching you.”

“It’s all you, Arthur,” Leon says quietly, and Arthur frowns.

“What?”

“You don’t need magic to be sure how you feel. You don’t need anyone to make it more intense. It already is, and it’s all you.”

Arthur walks out of the Department and doesn’t go back to the office that day. As soon as he’s back to the hotel, he goes for a run.

 

 

xxxxx

Gaius is waiting for him in the lobby, and Arthur tries not to show his surprise, though his heart’s ready to jump out of his chest -- and not just from running a good five miles.

"Is everything all right?" he asks.

“You’ve been hiding,” Gaius says.

Arthur shrugs. “Not really. Just, you know…”

“I wish I did,” Gaius answers sternly. “I wish I could understand what exactly is going on.”

“Gaius, is something wrong?” Arthur searches his face. He remembers his mentor’s eyes being more blue than gray, and the skin on his neck not as loose. “Is Merlin--”

“I need to see something,” Gaius interrupts him, glancing around. “Not here, please.”

Arthur nods and leads him to the elevator. His room is on the sixth floor, and normally, Arthur would use the stairs, but with Gaius dragging his feet and falling behind with every step, they are out of the question. Arthur waits for Gaius to catch up and pulls his jumper off, hot after the run.

“Arthur, you--” Gaius grumbles and stops himself, grabbing Arthur’s arm and turning it over, mark up. “I knew it. How long has this been going on?”

Arthur doesn’t want Gaius to blame himself for something that isn’t his fault, so he shrugs. “A while.”

Gaius looks like he’s about to slap Arthur in the head, like he did when Arthur was six and didn’t admit he was sick after eating four peanut butter sandwiches in a row. Vomiting on Uther's shoes had given him away.

“A while?” Gaius digs his shaky, gnarled fingers into his breast pocket in search of his glasses and brings Arthur’s arm close. “And you didn’t come to me?” He swears. Arthur doesn’t think he’s ever heard Gaius swear.

He tries to pull his arm away, and asks Gaius a question he knows he won’t get a straight answer to. “How is Merlin doing? Is he okay?" And then, more urgently, "Why are you here?”

Gaius freezes and looks at Arthur with such intense incredulity, Arthur ducks his head and starts rubbing his ear.

“Is Merlin okay?” Gaius repeats. Does he really have to?

Arthur glances at Gaius from under pinched brows.

“Let’s take a wild guess." Gaius gestures to Arthur’s mark. “Does _this_ give you a clue?”

Although Arthur thinks that he’s expected to provide some sort of a response, one look at Gaius’s murderous expression kills any attempts on his part.

“Does this tell you how absolutely _fantastic_ Merlin is?” Gaius raises his voice. “Very much like you. And that’s exactly why I’m here. Because you are both doing fine. And this bond between you,” Gaius points to Arthur’s arm again, “is not slowly wasting both of you away.”

“But you said...” Arthur’s searching for words. Words? He has absolutely no idea where his whole brain is. “You told me not to…”

Gaius sighs. ”I know what I said. To _take a break_ , Arthur -- a few days, maybe. So I could assess him without him being so strung out. He was so focused on you, he stopped listening to what his own body was telling him. I had to separate you for some time, and I know now that was a terrible mistake. I must be getting old.”

“So he’s not okay?” Arthur asks, his stomach dropping. “Gaius--”

“I can't believe this. Why didn’t you check up on him when he left the hospital? Why are you not living at home? I can't believe you just gave up on each other."

"I didn't give up on him; he didn't want to see me. He stopped talking to me. If he is better without me, so be it."

"He is not better! I never even discharged him! He checked himself out of the hospital two weeks ago, and Ganeida brought him back in this afternoon. He hasn't been eating. He--”

Arthur’s out the door and hailing a cab before Gaius finishes another sentence. When none of them stop right away, he breaks into a run.

 

 

xxxxx

The nurse doesn’t let him through and refuses to give him Merlin’s room number. He bluffs, using Gaius’s name as a reference, telling her he authorized him to go in, but she doesn’t buy it. Maybe because Arthur is in a sweaty t-shirt that says, _I run like the wind, fancy a catch?_ and there are wet footprints trailing after him because it had started to rain on his way here.

“Unless there’s written permission on file, I can’t--” she starts, but Arthur doesn’t listen.

He hops up, leans over the counter and turns her monitor to see the screen. “Here it is,” he says, pointing. “Here’s the written permission.” And jumps back down, accidentally pulling the cord as he goes.

“What are you doing?” the nurse yells, but Arthur’s already sprinting down the hall, to Merlin’s room.

Ganeida’s sleeping in the chair next to Merlin’s bed. And Merlin… Merlin is lying in the bed, curled on his side, facing the door, his eyes wide open. He frowns when Arthur walks in, and then his eyes widen even more.

“Arthur,” he whispers, and his voice is so weak, so broken, but there’s so much unbridled hope, Arthur loses his breath completely.

He heaves for a few moments, searching for something to ground him, but there’s nothing else -- only Merlin, his skin-and-bones but still beautiful boyfriend. His best friend.

Arthur clears his throat. “I missed you, too,” he says, walking up.

Merlin smiles and stretches out his hand, the IV drip trailing after. Arthur accepts the hand carefully, and, lowering to his knees in front of the bed, kisses it.

“Don’t die,” Arthur says, his voice thick with tears.

“Don’t leave me,” Merlin whispers back and pulls Arthur’s hand to his dry lips.

Arthur feels the mark on his arm throbbing hard, but this time there’s no pain, just an insistent and reassuring tugging that reaches somewhere deep inside him, hooking at his heart, spreading warmth all around it and inside.

Ganeida coughs next to them. “Security is on the way. What did you do, Arthur?”

“Nothing,” he answers, not taking his eyes off Merlin. He arches his brow, and Merlin blinks slowly in assent and smiles with one corner of his mouth.

“How long has he been on the drip?” Arthur asks.

“A couple of hours.”

“Merlin, I--” Arthur wraps his fingers around Merlin’s arm.

“I’ll do it.” Merlin slowly pulls out the needle himself, but keeps the Band-Aid on. “There.”

Arthur wraps the blanket around him and lifts him off the bed. “Just make sure they don’t see us walking out,” he tells Ganeida.

Ganeida gasps. “What are you doing?”

“We're going home,” Arthur answers firmly.

 

 

xxxxx

Arthur calls Gaius and promises to bring Merlin back for a check-up tomorrow.

"Yes, I got it, Gaius, plenty of fluids and we'll take it easy," he murmurs in the cab, glancing at Merlin out the corner of his eye.

Merlin's staring out the window, but Arthur can see his cheek dimpled -- he's smiling. Arthur finds Merlin's hand, and, shifting a little closer, links their fingers together; Merlin squeezes them.

It's getting dark by the time they make it to the apartment, and without discussing it, they go straight to the bedroom. They change, still without a word. Arthur finds an old pair of shorts he hadn’t packed, right where they’d always been. It's as if the last year hasn’t happened.

Except it did.

Not taking their eyes off each other, they slip under the bed covers, turn to face each other and reach for each other's hands. They stay quiet, then start to speak at the same time, and laugh through a, "You first," or two, both uncomfortable. Merlin's hand still in Arthur's -- fingers cold and thin, but _there_ \-- and it grounds Arthur, it's what he needs, so he breaks the silence again first. He begins talking about some nonsense -- the next door neighbors having a new puppy that takes a leak at their door every other day. “Careful when you step out.” And then about the toaster acting up. Merlin listens without interrupting, with a look of such amusement and fondness on his face, Arthur's voice gives out. He switches gears, starts saying something about Gaius's orders and that, “Merlin, tomorrow, we--” when Merlin leans forward with a shaky, ardent, " _Arthur_ ," and presses his mouth to his, a soft, uncertain touch that makes Arthur gasp and lean in all the way.

It escalates quickly into something hot, desperate, and breathless. Arthur is hard almost instantly, but he isn’t sure if it’s a good time to make it known how much he wants Merlin, how much he’s missed this. Not the sex necessarily, but this closeness, this overwhelming feeling that there’s never going to be anything better than Merlin’s exploring, adoring fingers on his face... Or his breath, warm and so familiar, Arthur blinks several times to chase away the wetness from his eyes. Merlin huffs a small laugh -- a happy sound Arthur didn’t think he’d ever hear again -- as he tries to say something, starting with, “D’you remember, Arth--” and it’s Arthur now who’s catching Merlin’s lower lip, licking into his mouth, and shuddering from pleasure because Merlin’s taste is the best thing in the world. Arthur can live just on that and nothing else for the rest of his life. They fall asleep like that, in the middle of sharing kisses, unable to part, Merlin succumbing first.

Arthur wakes up some time later to Merlin trembling against his back, mouth pressed into the nape of his neck, murmuring apologies and crying, and Arthur can’t stand it. He reaches to turn on the lamp, but Merlin stops him with a broken, “Don’t,” and Arthur turns to face Merlin, finds his mouth in the dark, lips salty from tears and feverishly hot, and he stays like that, breathing in Merlin’s scent, while he offers reassurance through the brushing of his thumb on the side of Merlin’s neck.

“I love you,” Arthur says, his voice scratchy, and he tries to clear it. It hurts. His heart seems to be lodged way too high in his throat to even breathe properly, let alone speak. But this is important, this is vital. Arthur needs Merlin to know, so he tries again, with even more conviction. “Merlin, I belong with you. I cannot be without you. Please don't leave me. Never again.”

Merlin shivers, and Arthur tucks the covers tighter around them, pressing himself carefully into Merlin’s body, feeling his every jutting bone, every soft hair against his skin.

“I’m sorry,” Merlin says. “I thought…” He brings his hand to his mouth, muffling a sob, and Arthur wraps his arm around Merlin, pulling his hand away and letting him do this -- letting him weep on Arthur’s shoulder openly, letting him apologize.

The sun begins climbing the sky, peering tentatively into their bedroom window, and Arthur feels more exposed because of it, skin flayed and raw, when he tells Merlin that he should’ve trusted him more, too. He heaves through the words and Merlin listens with his mouth open, catching every sound that comes out of Arthur’s as if it’s a litany, not a confession.

Most of it is not pleasant, as they try to relive the failure of the ritual a year before, and Merlin stills, his eyes wet and fixed on Arthur’s while he tells Arthur the details. Starting with him having nightmares about losing Arthur and setting on the path of finding the way out of it. He tells Arthur about the fights with Uther and with Freya. They fall silent after that for a long time.

When Merlin speaks again, his voice is raw. He tells him about his every single doubt, and then about every single thought he had gone through while he was pulling Arthur into the realm, and while he was casting a spell to protect Arthur during the ritual on the level so deep, Arthur wouldn’t have survived otherwise. He tells him about his complete surprise when he was hit, like a twist of a knife to the back, by Nimueh's spell in the middle of the magic transfer, and his sheer terror as soon as he realized what he'd done, after making a split-second decision to replace some of the Arthur’s memories. "It was stupid, Arthur, stupid. I'm so sorry."

He tells Arthur about pushing him out of the realm and crawling away.

Arthur learns more about Merlin’s magic. How truly remarkable his power used to be, how Merlin felt it in every layer, every element of the realm, while having no ability to call it all back with Nimueh constantly breathing down his neck. This makes Arthur feel guilty tenfold, since he let Merlin’s magic roam aimlessly and unprotected there for a whole year, preserving only such a small part of it, it was barely enough to save Merlin during the second ritual. Merlin shushes him with a kiss. He slides his tongue into Arthur's mouth, and Arthur can't help a groan deep in his throat.

"I waited for you every day there, Arthur," he whispers, clutching the hair on the back of Arthur's neck. "I couldn't let Morgana’s visions come true. I was going to wait for as long as it took to save you from Mordred’s hand.

"Part of me hoped it would never happen," Merlin says, and even though the sun hasn't yet chased all the shadows of the night away, Arthur doesn't need the light to see what it cost Merlin to stick to his decision; he hears it in his cracking voice, senses it in the tremble of his fingers splayed on his chest. "Another part of me couldn't wait to be back with you. I felt you in the realm. I was proud of you. I was worried about you. And then you told me you'd moved on..."

Arthur shifts. "When did I...?"

"That day in the realm. I thought I defeated Morgana’s premonition. I thought I’d leave with you. You didn't want me."

"What?" Arthur raises his head to look at Merlin, but only sees his wet cheek. "No! I never said that!"

"You told me it'd been a long time and you'd moved on. I couldn't... It was more than I could..." Merlin's head jerks on Arthur's shoulder as he swallows hard.

"You didn't lose all your power fighting Mordred and Nimueh?" Arthur asks quietly.

Merlin doesn't answer right away.

"Merlin."

"No. I didn't. I gave it all to you then. Yours to keep future danger away. Wasn't enough to complete the ritual, but it was all I had."

Arthur rolls over, covering Merlin's body with his, and presses his forehead to Merlin's.

"I didn't move on. I was trying to let _you_ go. I wasn’t even sure you were real. Merlin--"

Merlin kisses him again, deeply, bucking his entire body off the bed into Arthur and not letting him move when he senses Arthur trying to shift his weight.

"Stay," he asks between more kisses. "Stay with me."

"I am," Arthur promises, breathless just at the thought that it is possible, that he can, and he's welcome. He wraps his arms around Merlin tightly. “Merlin. You are it for me.”

After a while, they roll to their sides and just lie intertwined and stare at each other; the only language shared between them now is the mapping of each other's faces with loving fingers. A thick blanket of exhaustion covers them suddenly and mercifully, and they are both out like a light.

They wake up again to two glasses of orange juice and a plate of croissants sitting on the nightstand. Arthur goes to start a bath, and while he’s waiting for it to fill up, he leans on the doorframe of the bathroom and watches Merlin eat.

“Drink all of it,” he orders Merlin and nods to the second, still-full glass.

“Ugh, you’re worse than Gaius,” Merlin whines.

“Oh, but I beg to differ.” Arthur smiles, walking to the bed. “Gaius is not permitted to do this,” he says now, very seriously, pushes Merlin’s t-shirt to the side, pressing his other hand to the small of Merlin’s back, and sucks on his collarbone.

Merlin tosses his head back, giving Arthur better access, and moans.

“Now drink, please,” Arthur says, stopping abruptly. “I promise there’s more where that came from.”

Merlin gulps down the juice like his life depends on it, and maybe there’s a bit of truth to that. Arthur takes Merlin’s glass away and reaches behind him to grab the hem of his t-shirt. Merlin hesitates but raises his arms, and Arthur slowly pulls the t-shirt off, keeping his eyes on Merlin’s face. Discarding the shirt, he waits for Merlin to shimmy out of his bottoms, and picks him up from the bed and carries him into the bathroom. Merlin feels so light in Arthur's arms, Arthur swears inwardly, his heart starting to ache yet again.

“I’m not a girl, you know,” Merlin grumbles when Arthur lowers him into the warm water, but then lets out a small, “Ahhh,” as he relaxes all his limbs and leans back with his eyes closed, and Arthur laughs.

“Sure you’re not. Can you scoot over a little?” he asks, taking off his pajama shorts, and Merlin does, a little too quickly, which means water going over the edge of the tub. Arthur smiles indulgently, because it’s so Merlin -- clumsy, gangly, and wide-eyed -- and still his favorite person.

Merlin whispers a quick spell as Arthur makes a half-assed effort to wipe some of the water off the floor.

“Out of habit.” Merlin smiles apologetically.

“You should be saving it,” Arthur chastises him, although he yearns to feel the touch of it. He staves that feeling off and climbs into the bathtub behind Merlin.

“Bad idea,” he mutters as soon as he feels Merlin’s bony ass against his crotch. “Merlin, _God_...” he gasps helplessly when Merlin rocks into him, completely on purpose.

He grabs Merlin’s hips, trying to stop him, but the desperate, needy moan falling from Merlin’s lips has him pull Merlin closer instead.

“What are you…” Arthur starts to say, interrupted by a hot whisper, “Arthur, _please_ …” as Merlin arches up, pressing his back into Arthur’s chest and lifting his arm to wrap it around Arthur’s neck.

“You can’t…” Arthur gasps, tightening his fingers on Merlin; there probably will be bruises after this. “Mer--”

Merlin flips over, not paying attention to all the water splashing around them, and crushes their mouths together.

"Don't say no. Don't say no," Merlin chants when they fall apart, gasping for air. "I want this. I need this." He finds Arthur's arm, raises it against the wall above Arthur’s head and presses his mark to Arthur's, and it's as if a bomb has gone off behind Arthur's shut eyelids. Magic surges between them, blinding, eager, nesting itself in Arthur’s every cell, settling in its rightful place. His mind shatters into pieces, replaced by pure, unadulterated bliss. Home. He is home with Merlin in his arms.

Arthur doesn't remember how they get out of the bathtub or make it back into their bed. Somehow they do, with Arthur stretched out on the sheets naked and aroused so painfully, he thinks Merlin can make him come by just a blow of breath on his cock.

Merlin doesn't look like he’s into testing that particular theory. He clearly wants to touch and taste and turn Arthur into a needy, babbling mess. If that’s his plan, then it’s working perfectly already. Arthur _is_ a mess as soon as Merlin starts crawling between his legs, taking his time moving up as he plants small, sucking kisses along the way, finding the softest, most sensitive patches of Arthur’s skin -- the side of the ankle, the back of the knee, inside of the thigh. By the time Merlin is facing Arthur’s erection with a smirk that obliterates Arthur’s will for anything but getting Merlin’s hot mouth on it, Arthur’s already repeated Merlin’s name a hundred times and sworn that, “Merlin, anything… _anything_ … just… please…”

“I want your hands on me, Arthur,” Merlin says, his pupils blown when he looks at Arthur, and Arthur plunges his fingers into Merlin’s soft, shaggy hair and directs him where he wants him the most.

The colors he sees blooming in front of his eyes as soon as Merlin takes Arthur’s entire length into his mouth don’t exist in the real world. But it’s not the magic of the realm that makes Arthur see the world differently; trivially and wonderfully enough, it’s the combination of Merlin’s hot mouth and tongue, moving up and down and mapping the underside of his cock, slick over the head and applying just the right pressure, just the right amount of bite to the sensitive skin, that leaves Arthur sobbing. During one particularly skillful flick of Merlin’s tongue, while Arthur’s deep down Merlin’s throat, Arthur curls his fingers and tugs hard on Merlin’s hair before realizing that he might be hurting him, but just then, Merlin moans.

"This is too much, too much." The words spill out of Arthur’s mouth. And, “Merlin, I can’t. I’m--”

Merlin seems to understand, but instead of pulling off, he takes Arthur deeper, closes his throat around the head of Arthur’s cock, and sucks. That’s all it takes. Arthur’s hips arch off the bed, and Merlin slips his hands under him, supporting Arthur while holding him firmly and swallowing through his climax.

Shivering, Arthur pulls Merlin up when it gets to be too much again, when he is too sensitive to take more, and Merlin slumps against him, letting Arthur sear his mouth with a kiss, dip inside, and taste himself on Merlin’s tongue. Arthur reaches down for Merlin, wrapping his fingers around him while he murmurs, “ _Anything_ , Merlin.”

Merlin smiles, hitching his hips, shuddering when Arthur pulls the skin down with a twist of a hand, just like Merlin likes it, and flicks his thumb over the head. His eyes are a deep shade of blue and wide as he clutches at Arthur’s shoulders and whispers, “Just stay.”

They kiss through Merlin’s orgasm, frantic and burning with desperate need to be together, and still very much heartbroken for each other.

After Arthur makes sure that Merlin eats and drinks what Ganeida magicked in their room again without disturbing them, Merlin falls asleep, sprawled across the bed with his face burrowed under Arthur’s arm. Arthur spends time lying still and studying the map of Merlin’s skin. Re-learning the location of every mark and scar on his neck, back, arms, and legs. Merlin definitely needs to put some meat on his bones, Arthur thinks, noting how his favorite two dimples just above his ass are almost gone, and he misses them. He misses Merlin from the time when he was trusting and the smile never left his eyes. This will be a long road for both of them, Arthur realizes, but he will stay.

He will stay because Merlin is where Arthur’s magic is.

 

 

xxxxx


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Here's the rest of it. Thank you for your patience!**

 

 

 

xxxxx

Merlin stands on the top of the hill, panting a little. The wind blows his hair back, exposing Arthur’s favorite part -- a patch of hair at the front that whirls at an odd angle, opposite the direction of the rest of his hair. Some call it a cowlick, and the cowlick owners “blessed” and “lucky”. Oddly enough, it’s Arthur who feels blessed. He’s the one who’s incredibly, dumbfoundedly lu--

“Come on, Arthur,” Merlin urges, waving an impatient hand at him. “Keep up!”

“I’m right here,” Arthur huffs, climbing up. “Don’t make me sound so old,” he grumbles, his smile huge.

“Well, you are,” Merlin argues, making wide, innocent eyes at him.

“By four months!” Arthur cries. “Hardly a big age difference.”

“Old,” Merlin says, taking a small step back and assessing him from head to toe. “Grumpy.”

Arthur leans forward, kissing him soundly on the lips. “Great in bed. My mouth is magic, admit it.”

“Lies.” Merlin tries to suppress a smile and fails.

Arthur grabs Merlin by the back of his neck, pulling him close. “Oh, yeah?” he asks quietly, nuzzling his jaw.

Merlin exhales softly, tries to push him off with a weak, “M-m-yeah.”

Arthur doesn’t let him go; he moves his mouth to Merlin’s ear and says, his voice dropping lower, “Last night, Merlin. You were so good; I get hard every time I think about it." He sucks lightly on the soft flesh of Merlin’s earlobe.

“Arthur!” Merlin gasps, his hands flying up to grip Arthur’s shoulders.

Arthur moves his parted mouth down the slope of Merlin’s neck, grazing his teeth along the way, and Merlin shudders with a shaky, "Fuck."

“Yes," Arthur breathes. " _You_ , like this, Merlin. That’s all I _can_ think about.”

Merlin gropes him to slot their hips together and he gasps again at the friction, grinding into Arthur harder. “Oh, _fuck_.” Gold flashes behind his hooded eyes.

“Easy, love,” Arthur murmurs but keeps hitching his hips into Merlin's.

Ignoring his words, Merlin backs Arthur into a tree. The rough bark digs into his skin through his thin shirt, but Merlin’s insistent hands distract him, drive him into action. He pulls Merlin close, kissing him fiercely, biting his lower lip, and when Merlin hisses, he sucks it into his mouth, swiping his tongue soothingly over it. Merlin groans. He tugs at Arthur’s clothes aimlessly. One of the greatest warlocks in Camelot fails at a task as simple as undressing his horny boyfriend.

Without thinking, Arthur starts pushing Merlin’s jacket off his shoulder with one hand while trying to get underneath it -- he needs to touch, to feel Merlin’s skin under his fingers -- but Merlin doesn’t let him. Another flash of gold and a whispered spell under his breath, and Arthur’s firmly pressed against the tree with his hands pinned to either side of it, with no ability to move. Merlin searches Arthur’s eyes for signs of protest or discomfort and finds none. A smile slowly spreads across his face.

“I just remembered... Someone very recently...” he murmurs, pulling his jacket back over his shoulder, “...having an epiphany about a certain wish not being fulfilled. And we…” He traces Arthur’s jaw by lightly biting along the line, up to his ear, and then sucks on the soft spot behind it. “... always aim to please.”

Arthur’s breathing hitches. “I don’t know what you're talking about,” he pants, feeling a little dizzy and uncomfortably hard.

“No?” Merlin kisses him on the jaw once more and takes a small step back, pushing his hands into his back pockets. “Are you sure?”

Arthur licks his lips, darting his eyes around. “Merlin...”

“Yeah?”

“We’re in public.”

“Isn’t that the whole idea?” Merlin smiles so deviously, Arthur strains forward -- without much success, of course.

He wants Merlin’s mouth back on him, and he’s not above begging, but... “I don’t want other people to see you,” he confesses, conflicted by how much he wants it -- all of it and now -- and how jealous the possibility of anyone else seeing Merlin in an undressed state makes him.

“Oh, they won’t,” Merlin promises, wetting his lower lip, and Arthur can’t take his eyes off his mouth. “Everything will stay on.”

Arthur’s mind’s too hazy to comprehend. “But how…”

He’s not allowed to finish that sentence; Merlin darts forward and presses his mouth to Arthur’s, murmuring something -- another spell - and sucks a hungry, wet kiss on Arthur’s mouth that has him responding with a needy groan. Arthur jerks his hips, seeking friction, forgetting again that he’s being bound, and makes a frustrated sound in his throat.

“All you have to do is stay still... And quiet,” Merlin whispers, pulling back a little, and Arthur’s mouth follows his. His glazed-over eyes are on Merlin’s mouth as if he’s been thirsty for days and it’s a well of fresh water.

“Arthur,” Merlin says, offering him another kiss, this time slow, tongue gliding inside his mouth and brushing against Arthur’s. It’s sensual and full of so much promise, Arthur moans and opens his mouth wider for better access, for more; he doesn’t want this to stop. He closes his eyes, feeling possessive, insistent twist of phantom fingers in his hair, knowing that it's Merlin's magic doing the work, and he loves it. He loves the bliss of sharp pain while they kiss like they’re starved for each other; their tongues slot together -- messy, wet, and _right_. Arthur doesn’t think he'll ever be tired of kissing Merlin.

“If you stay still, Arthur,” Merlin offers after a long minute of nothing but a slide of their mouths and taking turns sucking on each other’s tongues. “I’ll make you come so hard that’s all you’d _ever_ think about.”

“Merlin, _god_." Arthur groans. " _Yes_ …” He wants that. He wants all of that, to give Merlin everything and have nothing left but a need to give more. “Anything, Merlin.”

“I know,” Merlin says. His eyes shine, and he kisses him again.

It’s Merlin’s magic, finally back and as strong as ever -- generous, pulsing with life, and _wonderful_ \-- that nudges Arthur’s knees apart, sends a warm ripple up his inner thigh, and rolls over his hipbone, deliberately not touching Arthur where he wants it the most.

“ _Merlin_ ,” he moans, a weak warning that’s more like a plea as he’s seeking Merlin’s mouth again.

Merlin smiles against his lips and kisses him, the sweetness of it such a contrast to the possessive, hot hunger of his magic curling around his hip, sliding hotly up his spine, over the nape of his neck…

It stops abruptly when Merlin’s body jolts as if hit from behind. Magic retreats, prickling all the way unhappily and leaving Arthur cold and blinking. The bindings are still pinning his hands to the tree, tightening around his wrists almost painfully, and he gasps, “Merlin, what..?”

Merlin hisses, sprawling himself all over Arthur like a shield. “Stay still,” he says, but there’s no sign of mirth in his eyes anymore, and all playfulness is gone from his voice.

Sobering up, Arthur tries to peek over Merlin’s shoulder. “What’s wrong?” He can see nothing but the slopes of the hills ahead, with early-spring bright patches of grass on them.

Merlin’s body jolts again -- this time so hard, it resonates with Arthur. It’s so sudden, Arthur’s head jerks back and hits a sharp piece of bark behind him, making him wince. Merlin catches onto his discomfort immediately. His hand flies to the back of Arthur’s head.

“Arthur,” he growls, a muscle twitching under his eye. He widens his stance, still shielding Arthur.

“I’m fine! Stop!” Arthur says with frustration. “Are you okay?”

He twists in his bindings and feels Merlin’s body jerk again; this time Merlin’s head bounces forward, and Arthur flinches away, barely avoiding getting bumped in the brow. Merlin cants a quick spell that sounds more like cursing, and, dammit, even _that’s_ appealing on some primal level to Arthur.

But even if Arthur finds his boyfriend hot in a situation like this, he still pushes his shoulder in an attempt to free himself from the overbearing half-sprawl, half-hug Merlin has him in. Merlin doesn’t move an inch.

“Merlin, if you don’t fucking move right now…” Arthur warns.

Merlin darts his eyes to Arthur’s. They have an agreement. They‘ve made a promise to each other, and no matter how difficult it is sometimes to follow it, they said they’d always try. Merlin nods, but doesn’t hurry to release Arthur from the bindings. He turns slowly, his body still somewhat covering Arthur.

“Let go,” Arthur says, as calmly as he can this time, and this seems to do the trick. Merlin’s magic retreats completely and Arthur’s released from the bindings.

When Merlin turns around and looks ahead, Arthur steps to stand next to him. Shoulder-to-shoulder, elbow-to-elbow with Merlin. Just like they were always meant to be -- partners and equals. Arthur scans the horizon for any sign of danger. The wind picks up a little.

“Ganeida!” Merlin calls. “Sneaking from behind? That should be beneath you.”

No one answers.

“What’s the matter?” Arthur yells. “Scared?”

Gwaine’s mocking laugh is the response to that. Gwaine steps out of the realm, his hair shorter than usual but still long enough to flop back from the wind, and it’s so fucking shiny, Arthur would shoot him a snarky remark if he wasn’t so pissed at his traitor friend.

“‘Scared’ is not in my girlfriend’s vocabulary,” Gwaine proclaims.

Ganieda appears next to him; her hair is in a thick braid on her shoulder, eyes fiercely blue and bright. “I can speak for myself, thank you,” she says and turns to Merlin, slightly frowning. “You weren’t ready.”

“And you were breaking the rules,” Merlin argues.

“We agreed. No warnings,” Gwaine pipes in again, and Ganeida shoots him an unhappy glance. “What? It’s not my fault these two are insatiable.”

Ganeida frowns more, biting her lip. “It's just--” She ducks her head, but then looks back up, her gaze sharp on Merlin. “Nimueh isn’t going to play by the rules.”

“True,” Merlin says. “But you are not her, and you’re lucky we’re in a secluded area.”

“No, it’s you who was trying to get lucky,” Gwaine argues with a salacious smile.

“Fuck off, Gwaine,” Arthur offers, but without heat.

Gwaine laughs. “Hey, I’m not the one hiding behind my boyfriend’s back.”

“You _don’t have_ a boyfriend,” Merlin says, and there’s something in his voice, a small pang of resentment maybe, buried so deep, only Arthur recognizes it. He brushes his elbow against Merlin’s -- an almost imperceptible, but still there, touch -- and Merlin’s shoulders relax a little.

“I don’t _need_ one,” Gwaine says, turning to Ganeida with a grin.

“Gwaine…” Ganeida shakes her head, and he deflates a little. Unlike Gwaine, she is not one for excessive displays of affection. How she tolerates his larger-than-life persona for long periods of time and in large doses, Arthur has no idea. He never could. But then, Gwaine murmurs something to her, kissing the knuckles of her hand, and a small, happy smile on her face answers all Arthur’s questions.

Merlin clears his throat, and Gwaine glances at him. Although Merlin’s face is fixed into a somewhat neutral expression, something passes between them, and Gwaine tilts his head in a slight nod. Merlin makes a small tutting sound and turns to Arthur.

“What was that about?” Arthur asks.

“Oh, nothing,” Merlin says lightly.

Arthur knows when not to press. “All right,” he says. “Want to get out of here?”

“Yes, please,” Merlin answers, smiling. “I want that very much.”

Merlin's smile grows bigger. A promise of delicious and sinful things waiting ahead shines in his eyes, and Arthur grabs his hand with a thought that yes, yes, they need to be out of here and out of everyone’s sight. Magic sex is awesome, but that’s not what he wants anymore. He needs to be in the privacy of their new place, needs to stretch Merlin on the crisp sheets of their bed, and drape himself all over Merlin -- cover every inch of his body with his own, bury himself in Merlin so deep that their bond won’t know where Merlin ends and Arthur begins.

Even after spending every free minute of the past eight months together, Arthur still can’t get enough of it. He still _misses_ Merlin, and often thinks that it will take years to make up for the one they’ve lost.

“We’ll see you later,” he tells Gwaine and Ganeida.  

“Next time, keep better guard, Merlin Emrys,” Ganeida says, and there’s slight worry in her voice.

“Try to hurt my boyfriend again, Ganeida Myrddyn,” Merlin intones, “and it won’t matter that we’re related.”

“Sorry, Arthur!” Ganeida says quickly.

“Don’t worry about me, it’s your brother who took the brunt,” he says.

“Merlin?” Ganeida takes a step forward, but Gwaine stops her.

“He’s a big boy. He knows what he’s in for,” he says. When Arthur shoots him an annoyed look, Gwaine grins. “Train hard, fight easy, princess. No one promised you comfort.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Learned a few military quotes, I see.”

“Someone has to keep you in shape. You’ll thank me later. One day, this might not be just a drill.”

Arthur hopes the time will never come for that to be true, but he nods.

“You okay, Merlin?” Ganeida asks.

Merlin rolls his shoulders. “You and I both know you were holding out, Ganny. And you shouldn't have.”

She offers him a shy smile. “He who wishes to fight must first count the cost.”

Gwaine makes a happy approving sound and gestures proudly at her. “Tell me I don’t have the smartest girlfriend! Come here, baby,” he murmurs and pulls Ganeida to him. She rolls her eyes but can’t stop the grin spreading on her face.

“You’re hopeless,” she tells him, cupping his face.   
“Quite the opposite, actually,” Gwaine says, tipping her backwards a little, and kisses her. This time she doesn’t object and goes all pliant in his arms.

They’re so nauseatingly perfect and sweet together, it’s impossible to watch, and judging by the small gagging sounds coming from Merlin, Arthur knows they’re done here.

“All right, _Emrysss_ ,” he says and begins to walk down the hill. He glances back. “You better not hold out on me when we get home.”

“Ohhhh, don’t you worry, Pratdragon,” Merlin drawls. “You’re gonna be _held_. Held down and so tight--” He reaches out for Arthur.

Arthur wiggles out with a laugh and breaks into a run; he knows Merlin won’t be far behind. It won’t be long before he catches up with him, and when they do get home, he'll make good on every promise. The bond sings happily in his blood, in tune with the wind whistling in his ears.

 

 

xxxxx

 

The clothes start disappearing the moment the door shuts behind them. They’re whirled into the bedroom by an impatient spell, incantation slipping off Merlin's tongue between kisses. They fall into bed, both already half-naked and feverishly desperate. Merlin’s on his back with Arthur on top of him, and they’re trying to wriggle out of the rest of their clothes without breaking the kiss. Arthur’s naked first; he tugs on Merlin’s briefs, sliding along his body as he pulls them off Merlin and follows with his lips and tongue. When Merlin’s erection bobs free, already slick with pre-come, Arthur sets his mouth on it without a warning. Firmly wrapping his lips around it, he moves down and up along the smooth length a few times and moans, loving the taste of it, making Merlin gasp helplessly.

"Oh fuck." He clutches at Arthur’s shoulders, his neck, pulling at him, holding him in place and not letting him move away when Arthur tries. "Fuck, fuck... Arthur, come on."

“Wait… just let me…” Arthur says, discarding Merlin’s briefs on the floor, and goes back to give Merlin’s cock the attention it deserves.

Merlin swears, asking for harder, for more -- now, _oh fuck, Arthur, now_! -- but Arthur holds his hips down and sets his own pace as he slides his mouth unhurriedly all the way down, stopping there for a few moments to bury his nose in Merlin’s dark, soft pubic hair and inhale deeply, breathing in the scent of Merlin there, musky and heady, which has Arthur’s eyes rolling in the back of his head.

Arthur drags his mouth back up, tracing the underside of Merlin’s length with his tongue as he goes, and Merlin hitches his legs over Arthur’s torso, nudging him on, with, “Arthur, please, _please_.”  And when Arthur repeats it all over again, just a tad faster, he moans, “Oh... That... Yes. Keep doing that.” His fingers curl and uncurl in Arthur’s hair. “Don’t stop,” he whispers feverishly. “Oh, fuck.... It feels… your mouth… _Arthur_ , I love it.”

Arthur smiles, kissing Merlin’s ripe, wet tip. Licks at it, as more pre-come beads out of the slit, and moans some more at the taste. He closes his eyes and lowers his mouth on Merlin again, keeping his lips firmly wrapped, tongue working round and around, while Merlin writhes under him. Arthur can do this all day long, even if it means he doesn’t get to come at all.

“ _Arthur_ ,” Merlin says from somewhere far away in a shaky, raw voice, fingers pressing into Arthur’s jaw, nudging him to look up.

Arthur opens his eyes, blinking. Merlin looks lost, wrecked, his cheeks are flushed, his irises blown dark, lower lip bitten plump and red.

“Oh, love,” Arthur whispers and pulls himself up. He kisses Merlin’s soft and pliant lips, then again, and once more, and says, “Turn around for me.”

Merlin looks at him for one confused moment and then nods. Arthur pulls himself up a little, letting Merlin roll to his belly, and Arthur nudges Merlin’s legs apart and stretches his arms to the sides, draping himself all over him. He lowers his mouth to the nape of Merlin’s warm neck and breathes him in deeply.

“I love you, Merlin Emrys,” he says into his skin. “For this life and every after. I love you as you are.”

Merlin makes a small sound in his throat. “And I you,” he chokes out.

Arthur kisses the corner of his mouth, his jaw, down his neck, and along his spine. His one hand’s buried in Merlin’s thick hair, and another holds Merlin’s outstretched left hand, his fingers wound with Merlin’s, clenching and unclenching together.

Arthur notes a small black dot, as if a mark in ink, etched into the skin on top of Merlin’s left shoulder blade. He looks closer and finds another one on the right blade and one just below it. After spending hours and days studying every inch of Merlin’s body, re-discovering it all over again, he feels like he knows Merlin’s every birthmark, every scar, every blemish or uneven spot, and he’s sure these marks weren’t there just yesterday.

He sits up, bringing his finger to brush over one. “What is this?” he asks, and Merlin flinches, although the touch is soft.

“It’s nothing,” he says, shifting and turning his face to see Arthur better. “Just leave it, yeah?”

“Merlin.” Arthur can’t hide his disappointment at Merlin’s closing off to him.

Merlin sighs. “It’s from today. Ganny was right; I was not prepared. I opened myself up and paid for it.”

“What?”

“It doesn’t hurt,” Merlin adds quickly.

Anger flares up in Arthur’s chest. “She did this? Ganeida?”

Merlin moves to rolls over; Arthur shifts down a little as he does, but Merlin doesn’t let him go too far, cupping him from behind to keep Arthur on top of him straddling his thighs, their somewhat softened cocks touching. “Arthur, it wasn’t her fault,” he says. “It wasn’t. She did exactly what we agreed we’d do, and my defenses were not up to par. Arthur, she could hurt you. In fact, she made a point today. That it was too easy to do so. I'm sorry.” He bites his lip.

“Merlin, look at me.” Arthur cups his cheek. “Whatever happens, stop thinking it’s all on you all the time. You are not in it alone, do you hear me? I can defend myself. This was as much my mistake as it was yours today.”

“Yeah, but--” Merlin tries.

“No,” Arthur interrupts. “A promise is a promise.” He searches Merlin’s eyes, and Merlin nods.

Arthur leans in to kiss him again. “I’m always by your side.”

“And I’m by yours. Until the day I die,” Merlin swears.

“Well, now." Arthur smiles. "No one’s in a rush.” He slips his fingers through Merlin’s damp hair and his tongue into his mouth. Something unfurls in Arthur’s chest. Something that’s too big to fit behind his rib cage, too powerful to be able to hold it in any more, and he opens up, lets it burst out of him towards Merlin, pouring himself into the kiss. The moment Merlin takes a sharp breath through his nose, he knows that Merlin felt it and accepted it, and as Merlin grunts happily, gratefully into his mouth, Arthur grips him tighter, happy and grateful himself.

When they fall apart, both gasping for air, Merlin flips them over. He looms over Arthur on all fours for a few moments as they take each other in. He’s bright-eyed, his hair is tousled, a fresh bruise blooming on the side of his neck -- one of Arthur’s kisses gone too careless. The sun streams through the window right above them, touching Merlin’s face and shoulders, and Arthur arches up, seeking Merlin’s mouth, done waiting. Merlin offers it with a groan, and before Arthur closes his eyes, he notes that the particles of dust in the air around them have gone brilliant and absolutely still. After that, it’s all just _Merlin_ and Arthur’s aching need for him.

Arthur’s trembling, and Merlin hushes him, murmuring promises into his skin, moving his hands along Arthur’s body in soothing circles. He doesn’t stop whispering something into kisses, voice too low for Arthur to recognize the words, and maybe he isn't meant to, but one thing Arthur knows for sure -- these are not words of spell in a true sense, because Merlin's eyes remain dark-blue and clear, and the only thing burning behind them is love, pure and reverent. It's Merlin, simply offering himself, and there’s no need of magic to spellbind Arthur. It's already been done, long ago, probably since day one. Merlin is his soulmate, his flawed, still somewhat broken-up and mending, and yet his _better_ other half.

There’s some preparation -- slick fingers, more hushed, hot murmurs, and mouths on each other -- all done in a blur. When Merlin finally enters Arthur, slides inside him in one measured but sure thrust, Arthur bites out a cry, it feels so good. He hooks his ankles over the back of Merlin’s thighs, pressing into him, and Merlin rolls his hips further, driving into Arthur to the hilt. They both hiss at the pleasure of being connected so deeply, the bond between them humming in satisfaction. They take a moment to adjust to the feeling of absolute completeness between them, and when Merlin starts moving, he holds his eyes on Arthur's, rolling his hips into Arthur with such focused intensity, time doesn't just stop, it simply stops existing.

Arthur moans whenever Merlin grazes against that spot inside him that sends sparks all over his body. Merlin brushes sweaty hair from Arthur’s forehead. He kisses his eyes, his cheeks, his jaw, his mouth. His moves turn erratic, hips pistoning forward without any sort of measure or timing, and Arthur likes that, that’s all he ever wants -- Merlin needing him, lost in him, all better, and good, and whole at this moment -- because Arthur makes him so. When they're like this -- breathing the same air, coaxing pleasure from each other, and melting into one -- it's as if the fabric of the world is unfolded and ready at their feet; everything is possible and nothing can defeat them.

They are slotted so tightly together, the friction of the skin, slick with sweat and Arthur’s pre-come between them, drives Arthur closer to climax.

Merlin pushes into Arthur faster, deeper, if that’s even possible, groaning, “ _There_ , Arthur… yes…” And, “So good… Oh… _God_...” And then, “Arthur, I’m close... Are you? Oh, God… _Please_ …”

And Arthur is, yes, he is there with Merlin. The world implodes, white, wild and brilliant, at the same time as Merlin starts coming inside him. Arthur’s coming too, shooting hot splashes that land on his chest and Merlin’s neck as Arthur feels Merlin pulsing and filling him inside. They both groan, overwhelmed by this immense, unsurmountable pleasure rolling between them. Merlin kisses Arthur, tongue sliding in and gliding over Arthur’s. He swallows Arthur’s gasps, drinks in every moan of his thrill and joy, his arms hooked over Arthur’s shoulders, holding him tight as they shudder through the waves of orgasm.

It takes a while for them to calm down. Arthur keeps his hand on Merlin's warm neck, and Merlin’s on Arthur's chest over his heart; neither of them wants to move. So they don't for a long time, dozing on and off.

God knows how much time later, when it's already late afternoon, Arthur glances at the clock on the stand and gasps. "Oh god. Merlin!” He shakes him. “Get up, get up, get up!"

He untangles himself from under the sheets and rolls off the bed to his feet.

"Merlin!”

Merlin shifts. “‘Mm-wha?”

“Get up now!”

Merlin opens one eye, then another. “What’s the hurry?” He yawns and stretches.

“They're going to be here in less than two hours!"  Arthur makes a dash to the bathroom, buck naked.

Merlin raises his head and hums at the view. “We’ve got plenty of time.” He flops back on the pillow, folding his arms under his head. “I’ll make it spick and span before you even say, ‘Merlin, please.’”

“Cleaning?” Arthur calls as he turns on the water. “Yes, Merlin, please. Food? No way! Magic makes everything taste stale.” He shows up in the doorframe with the toothbrush in his mouth and throws one to Merlin.

Merlin doesn’t move a muscle to catch it, just bats his lashes, and it lands softly next to him on the stand. “I can’t believe you’re still nervous about their visits,” he says.

"Forgive me for always trying to make a good impression on your father," Arthur grumbles and disappears briefly to spit out and wash off the foam. "Someone has to in this family," he says when he comes back.

Merlin’s lips curve into an amused smile.

"What?" Arthur makes an innocent face.

He chucks a tube of toothpaste at Merlin; it disappears midair, and Arthur blinks. Merlin looks pointedly at his brush on the stand -- it already has a stripe of toothpaste on it. Arthur doesn’t need to check to know that the tube’s already back on the sink behind him. “You think it's all so clever,” he says, rolling his eyes.

“I do, and you love it.” Merlin scoots off the bed and picks up the brush. He pads past Arthur to the sink. The water starts running without him touching the faucet, and Arthur could bet it’s the exact temperature Merlin wants. “Last time, you almost torched Balinor’s eyebrows in your attempt at cooking.”

“First of all.” Arthur crosses his arms on his chest. “My _bananes flambées au rhum_ was perfectly edible.”

Merlin makes a half-snorting, half-laughing sound with his mouth full of toothpaste. “By whose standards?” The foam runs down his chin.

Arthur throws a towel in his face. “You said it was great!”

“I’m not that much of a bastard to be honest in front of the guests.” Merlin wipes his mouth and grins. “Besides, according to Kilgharrah, Balinor’s eyebrows could use some trimming.”

They both start laughing.

“Their faces when you set the pan on fire. I never thought I’d see Kilgharrah so terrified of a little flame,” Merlin says between guffaws.

“He actually squealed and asked if we keep a fire extinguisher,” Arthur chokes out. “And Balinor…” He doubles over from laughter.

“ _Calm the fuck down, Great Dragon_ ,” Merlin mimes in Balinor’s voice, but it doesn’t work well; the words come out strangled while Merlin’s wheezing. He stands in front of Arthur, wiping his eyes and shaking his head.

“Kil was very put off after that. We need to remedy that tonight,” Arthur says after they calm a little bit.

“Take-out?” Merlin asks, still chuckling.

“Definitely take-out.” Arthur nods, reaching for Merlin’s face.

“Thai or Italian?” Merlin asks, nuzzling and kissing Arthur’s palm.

“Whatever you want,” Arthur says, leaning in and kissing him softly on the lips. “I’m sorry for that disaster.”

“Oh, Arthur,” Merlin says fondly, eyes shining with love. “Don’t you know already? My magic may be clever, but I’m absolutely stupid for you.”

 

 

xxxxx

 

It's a simple get-together, but Balinor and Kilgharrah are somewhat dressed up when they arrive. It’s not acknowledged out loud, but if anyone asked Arthur’s opinion, he’d say together, they make quite a dashing couple. No one asks, and no one seems in a hurry to acknowledge, but it’s plain as day that they are a couple. Although today there’s a certain tense air about them as they walk in. The apples of Balinor’s cheeks are unusually flushed, and Kilgharrah's greeting is somewhat dry, even for him. There's a little bit too much of a distance between them, even if out of respect for the magical rank. Kilgharrah thrusts a bottle of wine in Arthur’s hands, murmuring, “Balinor’s pick. Naturally, can’t be trusted.”

Balinor doesn’t twitch an eyebrow, although he’s clearly heard the jab. “I’m sorry we’re late,” he tells Merlin, and Merlin doesn’t hide a slightly bewildered expression when he looks at Arthur.

They are not late at all; in fact, they’re a bit early. Arthur shares Merlin’s notion, but keeps his face stuck in a smile, set on playing the best host he can be. “You’re fine, glad you could make it,” he offers mildly.

It’s a bit awkward as they all stare at each other for a prolonged moment without the usual pats on the backs and "how are you". Then, Kilgharrah sniffs the air. “Smells good.”

Arthur sniffs it, too. No, something smells like it’s _burning_.

“Shit.” Arthur scrambles. “Shit, sorry.” He makes a few wild, pointing gestures for Merlin behind their guests’ backs that are supposed to mean _what-the-fuck-take-them-to-the-living-room_ , which Merlin of course doesn’t read -- he never does -- and just stares at him with an open mouth.

Arthur huffs and clears his throat. “Please do come in. Make yourselves comfortable,” he says, as pleasantly as he can make it, while glaring at his thick boyfriend. “I’ll be right there,” he promises and makes a beeline into the kitchen.

“Oh, fuck!” he swears as soon as he walks in, and rushes to the oven. Re-heating take-out from a nice restaurant isn’t the same as cooking from scratch, but still is a certain form of art that isn’t as easy to muster as it may seem, Arthur has already learned. He pulls the oven’s door open, dreading what he’ll see in there, and to his surprise finds the lasagna happily bubbling in the casserole dish and looking not too brown. Some of the sauce is dripping down the pan, hissing on the bottom of the oven, hence the burning smell, and Arthur carefully wipes it all, getting rid of the evidence of anything being amiss. It’s all good, and even if the lasagna’s slightly overdone at this point, he hopes everyone’s hungry enough not to notice.

Merlin walks in as Arthur’s placing the dish on the top of the stove. The smell of the marinara sauce, cheese, and meat wafts through the air, and even though Arthur didn’t exactly make it, he’s quite proud of the way it looks.

“How are they?” he asks, taking off the oven mittens.  

“They aren’t talking,” Merlin says and leans with his back on the table next to Arthur. “It’s weird.”

“You mean…”

“I think they had a fight," Merlin muses.

“Your father and I never fight.” Kilgharrah appears in the doorway, startling them both. He's smiling, but his eyes stay serious -- sad, even. “We disagree sometimes.”

Arthur and Merlin look at each other, unsure how to react.   
Kilgharrah sighs. “It has nothing to do with me being below his station on the magic scale. We aren’t that old-school. It’s not about disobedience.”

Arthur doesn’t respond, letting Merlin decide if he wants to ask questions. Merlin slowly rubs his forehead, and Arthur thinks about the table still waiting to be dressed with plates and silverware, and the bottle of champagne in the freezer, left there to chill faster. If he doesn’t take it out shortly, disaster will be imminent. Yet he doesn’t move, staying hip-to-hip with Merlin and feeling the warmth radiating between them that has nothing to do with the heat of the oven close-by. Merlin shifts, and if anything, he gets even closer.

“What is it about, then?” he finally asks.

Balinor appears before Kilgharrah can answer. “Need any help?” he asks, a bit too cheerfully.

Kilgharrah doesn’t look impressed; it turns awkward with everyone knowing that Balinor heard their every word, while refusing to acknowledge the conversation or the tension.

Arthur snaps out of it first. He grabs some silverware and hands it to Balinor, and a stack of plates to Kilgharrah. “Could you please help me with this?” Then he nods to the glasses. “Merlin, bring them out, please.”

Merlin shoots Arthur a puzzled glance and goes to gather the glasses up, managing to somehow fit all of them between his fingers securely in one go.

Arthur picks up the lasagna and turns around, finding Balinor still standing by the door, with an absent look on his face.

“Are you all right?” Arthur asks.

Balinor glances at him, then at the knives and forks in his hand, frowning. He opens his mouth.

The doorbell rings at precisely that moment, distracting Arthur. “Aha,” he says, slipping into his host mode again. “Your beautiful daughter is here with her annoying boyfriend. Would you please let them in while I'm bringing this out?”

Turns out, it’s Morgana and Leon. Ganeida arrives with Gwaine shortly after, and Balinor’s such a perfect assistant, any earlier awkwardness is forgotten.

It’s a little bit of a madhouse after that, with everyone settling at the table, loading their plates with food, passing the dishes, and talking over each other. The last time they met like this was over a month ago for Gwaine’s birthday, so they have some catching up to do as a group. The lasagna receives a lot of compliments, although it’s not a secret to anyone where it came from. They do forget about the champagne in the freezer, and if it wasn’t for a bit of Merlin’s magic they would’ve ended up with a slushy instead of bubbly.

After a couple of drinks, Gwaine starts making jokes, mostly at someone else's expense. When he gets to Arthur, it’s a story about him showing up on his first day to work wearing mismatched shoes. Everyone knows it’s completely made up; Arthur would never. But there’s no point in arguing because Gwaine swears he has proof. He magicks up several pictures, in which Arthur is about fifteen, holding a bottle of beer in his hand and looking a bit flushed and disheveled, and wearing no shoes at all. That was his first alcoholic beverage ever, and he’s slightly mortified that such evidence actually exists, but everyone is cracking up and Arthur cracks up along with them as they start passing the pictures around the table, oohing and aahing about how young and cute Arthur was.

The only person who doesn’t share their enthusiasm is Kilgharrah, who mutters something about a correlation between underage drinking and adult impotency. Arthur thinks he might have heard him wrong, but then Merlin starts choking on his wine. He waves at everyone that he’s fine, and that’s when Morgana discovers something new and interesting in one of the pictures -- something behind young and cute Arthur. It’s Gwaine in nothing but white boxers, passed out on the couch with his ass up and hand inside the boxers, drooling all over the couch pillow. Of course, Gwaine yells that this is sorcery and cannot be treated as a reliable source, to which Ganeida croons, “ _You’re_ one walking and talking unreliable source.” They make googly eyes at each other, and Merlin groans and demands to be served with all the alcohol immediately. A bottle of wine floats over the table to Merlin, the drink pours itself into the glass, and even though Arthur pays attention, he isn't entirely sure who’s magicked it up. Sorcery, indeed.

A little later, Arthur and Merlin are in the kitchen getting out the dessert. It’s gelato today -- a safe and ever-popular choice. The worst thing their guests might suffer from is a brain freeze and overstuffed bellies, thank you very much.

“Do you ever think he’s charmed her, maybe?” Arthur asks Merlin.

“Gwaine?” Merlin shakes his head right away, as if he’s already thought about it before and come to his own conclusions. “No.”  
“Why so sure?”

“Ganny’s been manipulated for way too long and by way too many people to let anyone do that to her again,” Merlin says. “And her magic is a lot stronger than Gwaine’s.”

“Her magic is a lot _different_ from his,” Arthur points out.

Merlin shrugs. “I don’t think it matters to them. She’ll be fine.”

Arthur narrows his eyes at him. “ _Mer_ lin.”

“What?” Merlin blinks innocently.

“Don’t _what_ me.”

Merlin huffs. “Okay, fine. There’s a bit of a shielding going on. But--”

Arthur groans.

“But,” Merlin says a little louder. “It’s practically harmless.”

“There’s another ‘but’ in there, I know it. Fess up,” Arthur demands.

Merlin rolls his eyes. “ _But_ , if his thoughts are ever impure towards my sister--”

“You must be kidding me!” Arthur cries, closing the fridge with a loud thunk; the bottles clink in protest inside. “Don’t tell me you placed some sort of a purity--”

“Oh my god, Arthur, would you please just shut up? No! Nothing of that sort.” Merlin shudders visibly. “No. It’s just in case anyone tries to make her do something she doesn’t want. It will backfire.”

“How?” Arthur asks.

Merlin smiles mischievously. “Let’s just say there’s no prince or princess born into this world yet who’d be able to break the spell on that frog.”

“You call that harmless? You’re evil, Merlin Emrys.” Arthur pulls Merlin closer by his belt. “Pure evil.”

“Oh yeah? Then, I’mnottellingyouabout _your_ shield,” Merlin blurts, and, planting a quick kiss on Arthur’s lips, thrusts a bucket of gelato into his hands.

“What?” Arthur yelps, but Merlin’s out of the kitchen before Arthur can react properly.

They are so talking about this later.

 

 

 

xxxxx

The evening is in full swing, progressing without any major hiccups, to Arthur’s relief. Everyone’s talking, and laughing, and seemingly having a good time. The only two people who stay somewhat reserved throughout the night are Balinor and Kilgharrah, and Merlin is right, they barely speak to each other. But whenever Arthur looks in their direction, they smile and nod, and take turns making nice enough comments to dissuade Arthur’s concerns. At some point they leave the table, disappearing for a while.

“They hated the lasagna, didn’t they?” Arthur asks quietly.

“I’m pretty sure this has nothing to do with your cooking this time,” Merlin says.

“Yeah, okay,” Arthur mumbles. “I think you’re right.”

Leon laughs at something Gwaine has said and Arthur looks around the table, taking in this moment and the faces of his friends. An overwhelming feeling surges through him that these people here, though not related to him by blood, aside from Morgana -- they are his family. Maybe even more so than his blood in some way, which reminds him who’s missing at the table tonight.

Citing his busy schedule, Uther turned their invitation down, sending his good wishes and kind regards, etcetera, via Catrina instead, of course. Uther was in the midst of the re-election season and the numbers weren’t in his favor so far, so a gathering with the family was the last thing on his list of priorities.

“You know it’s a busy time for your father, Arthur. You understand, of course,” Catrina told him with an unmistakable longing in her voice.

Oh, of course Arthur understood. He did know his father. He also knew that Catrina was family, too.

“Screw it, Catrina, come over tonight. Leave that oaf of a man for one evening by himself and come.”

Catrina made a noncommittal sound over the phone line. She sighed. “Maybe next time, Arthur.”

There was never a next time -- they both knew it, and there was a reason for it.

Arthur looks around the table again. The reason why Uther would never set foot at a party like this is because every single person in the room is a sorcerer. Everyone apart from Arthur.

But that’s the thing -- even after all these years and after everything they’ve all gone through, Uther still fails to understand that magic or not, these people are important to him. This is where Arthur is happy. This is _his_ realm. As if reading his thoughts, Merlin shifts and presses his thigh against Arthur’s, and Arthur can’t help a content sigh as he slumps on the back of his chair and briefly closes his eyes, enjoying the pleasant buzz in his head.

“How’s Hunith?” Morgana asks, and although she does so conversationally, both Balinor and Kilgharrah stop chewing and look at Merlin.

Merlin’s shoulders hitch up. “She’s good, thank you for asking.” He darts his eyes to Balinor.

“Mom’s doing well,” Ganeida adds softly, placing her hand on Merlin’s arm. “She called me by my name yesterday.”

The topic of Hunith is always a sensitive one. It’s per Balinor’s insistence that Hunith has been transferred into a place that’s more like housing than a medical facility -- something Merlin couldn’t afford before. The decision wasn’t reached easily, and Merlin lashed out when both Ganeida and Arthur took Balinor’s side.

“He’s not in her life anymore,” Merlin yelled. “He’s never been. How does he know what’s best for her? How do _you_ know?” he threw accusingly at Ganeida.

Surprisingly, Ganeida didn’t take offense. “Maybe I don’t, but I’ve been inside wards. Even one day is more than enough sometimes, and Mom’s been there for years.”

“And what happens if you change your mind?” Merlin asked Balinor the next time it came up. “What happens if you chicken out again and decide we’re better off without you?”

Balinor shifted from one foot to the other as Merlin stood face to face with him. “I can tell you it won’t happen, but you wouldn’t believe me, would you?” Balinor asked.

Merlin’s scoff was answer enough.

“Then all I’m going to say is that no matter what happens to me, from now on, your mother will always be provided for. I made sure of that.”

“And what if we don’t want it? We don’t need your charity.”

Something flashed in Balinor’s eyes, and at that moment, everyone in the room was reminded who exactly was standing in front of them -- a powerful man who’d lived a long life and survived many falls without breaking or bending down. He tipped his head to the side, studying Merlin for a long moment.

“I respect that,” he finally said, looking like he’d found what he was searching for in Merlin. “But I’m not doing this to get in your good graces. It has nothing to do with you or Ganeida. I am doing this for a woman who once opened her heart to me and paid for it. I’m doing this because I was wrong, and she deserves a lot better.”

“She always did!”

“True,” Balinor said. “But would you rather keep teaching me a lesson or give your mom a chance at better quality of life?”

There was only one answer to that.

 

 

 

xxxxx

By the time Merlin makes everyone coffee, cheating with magic only a little, it’s quieter and calmer in the room. He flops down on the couch next to Morgana and they start some discussion, and Arthur is fairly certain it will end up involving magic, Uther, and the election. He’d rather be doing the dishes.

He’s busy with the task in the kitchen when Balinor slips into the room and closes the door behind him.

Arthur glances at him, quickly assessing the loosened tie over the unbuttoned collar of his shirt, and the solemn line of his mouth.

“Coffee? Tea?” he asks.

“Hmm? Tea. Thank you.” Balinor sits down and picks up a small figurine from the window sill. It was one of his housewarming gifts when they moved in here -- a set of salt-and-pepper shakers made by Balinor especially for the occasion. A porcelain dragon and a bird painted in red, blue and gold, and slotted into each other on the nest, bird's wing curving over the dragon's tail with such precision, they fit together perfectly.

Arthur sets the kettle and finishes loading the dishwasher. They stay in silence for a while. Balinor sighs.

“No one said it was going to be easy,” Arthur offers, figuring that’s what bothers Balinor.

“I’m trying,” Balinor responds quietly.

“I know. We all are,” Arthur says. “But you told me yourself -- some things can’t be fixed. Too late for that. The best you can do is to try to salvage what you can.”

“I don’t know if it’s good enough for my kids.”

“Maybe you should ask them? You're all terrible at communication.”

Balinor hums.

“Sometimes I wonder about you, Arthur," he says.

“Hmm?”

“The lives you’ve lived. The things you’ve seen.”

Arthur frowns.

“Once,” he says, wiping his hands. “I’m living my life once. And you know what? It won’t hurt if you try as well.” He hears laughter from the living room and smiles briefly. “They seem to be having a good time. Your daughter especially.”

Balinor looks at Arthur softly. “They’ll always be safe with you. I wouldn’t wish for anything more.”

Arthur spreads his hands. “I’ve had too much to drink to come up with another profound response, sir. Have mercy.”

It was an attempt at a joke, but it falls flat as Balinor doesn't even crack a smile.

Arthur has seen him worried. He’s seen him upset. He’s seen him stumped. Neither Merlin nor Ganeida have made it easy for him -- none of them have offered a quick forgive-and-forget -- but they’ve been present, and they’ve given him a chance to try. They’re _all_ trying here, and to Arthur, it hasn’t been half-bad so far.

But now, Balinor looks exhausted, lost, as he stares into space for too long and jerks out of it only when the kettle goes off loudly.

“Balinor, what’s going on?” Arthur asks, taking it off the burner.

Balinor looks at him pleadingly. He smooths down his hair, which doesn’t seem to obey -- a few strays fall down over his eyes as soon as he drops his hand.

“It’s Kilgharrah,” he croaks. “He’s…”

“Oh, crap.” Arthur moves to clasp Balinor’s shoulder. “Is he sick or something?”

“No, no…” Balinor shakes his head. “He’s leaving.”

Arthur balks. “What? Where’s he going?”

“He’s not going anywhere. He’s leaving _me_.”

Arthur frowns. “But he can’t do that. Can he?” he asks. “I mean, isn’t he, like, your…”

“Companion? Friend?” Balinor asks, his voice cracking. “Best thing that’s happened to me, aside from those two kids.” Balinor nods to the wall shared with the living room.

“I don’t understand. There’s… What about the bond?”

“Our bond is not like yours,” Balinor says. “We are tied by a spell, planted deep within our genes; we didn’t choose this. You and Merlin did.”

“But you are his...”

“Master? Yes.” Balinor smiles bitterly. “And I will remain as such until my last breath and he will obey my word. And when I’m gone, my kin will take my place. I am his dragonlord by a word of magic, but I cannot strap him to my side and make him be my life partner no matter how much I want it. I wouldn’t dare abuse my power in such a way.”

"Did you talk to him?"

"He thinks I need more space to spend as much time with my family as I can, and I told him he has his freedom to leave, yes."

The grimace on Balinor’s face is one of unbridled pain. He closes his eyes.

“Maybe if you--” Arthur starts.  
Balinor snaps his eyes open, the dark intensity in them frightening in its determination. “I can command this magical creature to kneel in front of me, yes, but I cannot -- _will not ever_ \-- try to bend that man’s free will. I’ve always respected him too much to treat him like a pet. He can do as he wishes.”

“What are you going to do?” Arthur asks quietly after a long pause.

Balinor gives him a broken smile. “I suppose telling him he’s a fool wouldn’t change his mind. So, I really don’t know, son.”

Arthur reaches out, opening his arms, and regrets it that same instant, afraid Balinor will think of him as a softie, will laugh and call him ridiculous. Yet, Balinor surprises him by leaning into a hug and almost clinging to him, shaking slightly.

“You know,” Arthur says when he steps back. “The Great Dragon gave me good advice once.”

“Oh, he’s certainly full of that,” Balinor mutters.

“Well, it worked for me.”

“What was it?”

“He said to remember that no matter what, I must not let my pride lead my actions,” Arthur says.

Balinor looks at him pensively. “You think I’m too proud.”

“He’s family, too. I think you should tell him.”

“It’s not--”

“Balinor, it’s simple. _Tell_ him.”

Balinor sighs and mutters under his breath something about--

Arthur doesn't learn what Balinor mutters about, because there’s a loud commotion in the hallway. Then the door bursts open, and Merlin falls into the kitchen, his eyes wild.

“Arthur--” He stops, his frown deepening when he sees their tense faces.

“What’s wrong?” Arthur asks and thinks that _shit_ , just when he’s started to believe they’ve had a nice evening with minimum drama for once…

“It’s Nimueh…” Leon says behind Merlin, with his hand on the back of his head. And there is a deep cut on his cheek, blood seeping through it.

“She’s got Gwaine, Arthur,” Merlin rushes the words out. “She’s got Gwaine.”

 

 

xxxxxx


	16. Chapter 16

 

 

xxxxx

“Gwaine and I were on the balcony, talking,” Leon explains. “Someone opened the realm and pulled Gwaine in. I tried to grab him...” He brings his fingers to the cut on his face and winces.

“How do you know it’s Nimueh’s doing?” Arthur asks.

“It’s her.” Morgana steps out of the shadows. “She made sure to leave a track. She wants us to know it’s her.”

“Where’s Ganeida?” Arthur asks, looking into the hallway. “Fuck, tell me she didn’t go after her alone.”

“No, I didn’t.” Ganeida comes into view. “I’m not a fool, Arthur. Although she seems to think I am.”

Ganeida’s calm. She’s unnaturally pale, yes, and her eyes burn gold, but she doesn’t look beside herself with worry, and Arthur understands why. They’ve been preparing for this. They’ve been expecting to be hit with something nasty over their heads, and as terrible as it may seem, it’s probably for the best that it’s Gwaine who’s been chosen as bait by Nimueh. Nimueh has no idea that behind all the constant debauchery and silly grins is a man of great strength, who’s been quietly readying for this moment and worked his hardest. In the past eight months, Gwaine's jumped two levels up in his magic, and being a powerful charis… Nimueh's in for some nasty surprises herself. Gwaine's going to be _fine_ , and they are coming, they are _all_ coming for him.

Arthur repeats that to himself several times like a mantra before he’s able to clear his mind, and then he sets into motion.

Balinor’s already on the phone, talking to someone, issuing commands in a language Arthur doesn’t recognize. It sounds like they’re going to get an international crew today. Good. The more the merrier.

Arthur dials a number on his cell. This number’s reserved for utmost emergencies, for occasions of this level, and Arthur’s sure his call will be answered.

"Yes?" He hears after two rings.

“Hello,” Arthur says into the phone. “Please be advised of the upcoming, possibly on an extreme level, activities in the realm tonight. Make sure your people stay away.”

“Arthur--”

“Yes, I’m going in, and Father, I am warning you, I’m _asking_ you -- do not interfere with this. This fight is going to happen whether you want it or not. Do what you're employed for and provide your unbiased judgement. This is not about the Balance anymore. Do not take sides.”

“You did!” Uther snarls.

Arthur looks around, meeting the eyes of the people gathered in this one small space, the unlikely crowd that doesn’t just happen under one roof -- they’ve all chosen to be here. And they’re all watching Arthur now and listening to his every word.

He smiles.

“No, Father, not anymore. I’m just coming along with my friends.”

“Arthur, I forbid you--”

Arthur ends the call. “Well, that went as well as expected,” he mutters.

“Is he going to call in the forces?” Merlin asks.

“He wouldn’t dare,” Morgana says. “If he wants to be elected for the next term, he can’t afford another Magicgate on his hands like last year. The public might be skeptical about the existence of the supernatural, but they still remember how little Uther Pendragon cared about hurting innocent people for the sake of his political agenda. He wouldn't survive another scandal, and I can guarantee one if he even tries to get close to the realm tonight.”

Arthur hopes she’s right.

“Are we good?” he asks Balinor.

“We won’t lack in numbers tonight.”

Kilgharrah says something under his breath, and Balinor narrows his eyes at him.

“Speak up, Great Dragon,” he commands. “State your mind.”

Kilgharrah’s nostrils flare. He straightens his spine, visibly growing taller as he does. “I said numbers isn’t the answer. Rumor has it, Nimueh’s called in for the great Cornelius Sigan, and we know she has the voice to command every creature of dark magic on her side. She cannot be underestimated, not with that kind of power.”

“Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m ready to kick her ass from here to Perilous Lands. Ganeida, how’s Gwaine doing?” Arthur asks.

“His trail is strong. I will not have a problem finding him. But I’d rather we go now.” Finally, Ganeida shows a sign of impatience, and Arthur agrees.

“Leon, are you all right?” he asks next.

“Never better,” Leon assures Arthur. There’s a thin pink scar on his cheek, but otherwise he looks fine.

“Your head?” Arthur just wants to make sure.

“Arthur, I’m fine,” Leon insists.

Morgana whispers something to him with her hand on his chest, and Leon leans into it, looking down at her with an adoring smile, and presses his lips to her forehead. He grew into his power lately; his healing ability is stronger and works faster, but just like Arthur, he still needs a boost to go deep in the realm.

“Now we’re good,” Arthur says.

Ganeida disappears in the shadow first. Morgana and Leon go next. Arthur reaches for Merlin and they clasp their hands together.

“Arthur,” Balinor calls and Arthur looks back. “The pendant?”

“Right here.” Arthur smiles and taps his chest just below his collarbones. It took months to get used to, but he grew into the habit of never taking it off. Its power no longer wears him out, and being at full strength as it is right now, it’s nothing but a strong thrum under his skin, fueling him with magic.

Arthur nods to Merlin, ready to go, and the last thing he hears is Balinor asking Kilgharrah if he’s with them and Kilgharrah telling Balinor that he is a foolish, foolish man.

 

 

 

xxxxx

Merlin doesn’t let Arthur’s hand go. The air whips across their faces, stealing their breath and tearing at their hair, and Merlin stretches his hand forward, palm out like a shield, and says a few words. The wind howls, makes another vicious circle around them, lashing out against the hems of their jackets and pants, and dies down as suddenly as it started.

The wind should’ve helped the visibility, but of course the magic realm doesn’t follow any laws of physics. The area around them is covered in fog. The air is damp and it’s eerily quiet.

"Where are we?" Arthur asks, suppressing a shiver.

"Not sure yet,” Merlin says. “Somewhere outside of Camelot."

“Wait,” Morgana says.

Lowering her head, she scans the area, her eyes glowing deep, steady gold. “Oh,” she says, exhaling sharply, and looks at Balinor. “I’ve seen this place in my dreams. It’s--”

“Cornwall,” Kilgharrah says. “We are near Cornwall and this place is called Camlann. Nothing special.”

“Ah.” Balinor hums. “So here we are.”

“Don’t act like you know everything, Dragonlord,” Kilgharrah says, and Balinor sends Kilgharrah a lopsided, forlorn smile. The dark intensity in Kilgharrah’s eyes as he looks back at Balinor gives Arthur chills.

“Something you’d like to share with the class, gentlemen?” he asks.

“Nope.” Balinor turns to him and points at something ahead. “And look, there they are.”

It’s dusk -- the time of the day when there’s still enough light to see the objects outside without additional illumination -- but the edges of the night are already creeping in. At first, Arthur sees nothing but dark-grey shadows swaying in a fog far away, but as if on command, the fog starts thinning and he makes out silhouettes, and then, they turn into people -- rows of people standing as one.

“Who’s that?” he asks, sincerely hoping it’s not Nimueh’s army waiting for them already.

“Those who came to help us,” Balinor says. “Waiting for my command.”

Arthur’s heart lurches behind his ribcage. “Oh...that’s… that’s tremendous!” He turns to Kilgharrah, smiling. “Say whatever you want about numbers not being important, but that's _impressive_!”

“Balinor,” Ganeida says; neither of his kids have taken to calling him “Father”, and he’s assured them that it’s fine with him. "We need to move.”

“Indeed,” Balinor agrees.

Merlin quickly whispers something to Ganeida, who nods and follows the others.

"Arthur, wait." He holds Arthur back.

"Yeah?"

Merlin pulls Arthur closer and wraps his arms around him.

"Please, Arthur," he murmurs, pressing his face to the side of Arthur’s neck. "Please, I beg you, stay close to me. Do not leave my side."

Arthur turns his head, breathing in the familiar scent of Merlin’s shampoo. “Like glue. You won’t be able to shake me off.” He kisses the crown of Merlin’s head.

“Good,” Merlin says, and Arthur feels a brief press of soft lips. “I love you, Arthur Pendragon.”

“Shut up, Merlin.” Arthur pushes him off. “I am not saying goodbye to you.”

Merlin punches Arthur lightly in the shoulder, looking away, his eyes glistening suspiciously. “Of course not. Come on, then. Let’s catch up.” He sets on a brisk walk and Arthur rushes after him.

 

 

 

xxxxx

 

It’s impossible to say at first what this Camlann place is like because of the fog still lingering in patches over the ground, but the wind picks up again -- which Arthur suspects is Merlin’s doing -- and when it clears up, his breath catches in his throat.

They are deep in the bottom of a valley, encased by a ring of cliffs. As far as Arthur can see, the ground of the plain is covered by rocks and spring-green grass; dead sticks here and there are posing as bushes. The sun is setting down quickly, painting the sky behind the rocky cliffs in a bright red color, which brings associations to Arthur’s mind he doesn’t want to name.

Arthur scans around, assessing the area from a strategic standpoint. There are no trees, no pits or hollows; the land is flat-open and exposed. Nimueh’s chosen the location smartly -- there's nowhere to hide, nowhere to run, not that they are going to. And Arthur knows it’s not the rapidly advancing night playing tricks on him -- the shadows moving on the slopes of the cliffs on both sides are not just shadows. They are being watched and followed.

“Merlin,” he calls quietly and nods pointedly to one side.

Merlin lets out a short huff of breath, and Arthur gets the message. Merlin is aware. And when Merlin gives him a smile -- a slow, sure smile that looks almost creepy on his thin, pale face -- Arthur realizes that Merlin is aware of everything around them, and Merlin isn't intimidated by the setting in the slightest. Merlin raises his face up. His lips start moving in incantation and his eyes light up in gold. Ganeida stands a few feet away with her head lowered and her arms slightly spread, and she’s canting as well. Together, they present a truly magnificent sight that has Arthur speechless.

Merlin does something with his hands, his fingers beginning to glow, and it keeps getting stronger, brighter, forming into something solid and round between his fingertips. Ganeida mimics his movements, the spell falling from her lips growing louder. They send their hands up at the same time, and two blazing-blue globes fly into the sky, lighting up the already-darkened horizon. Arthur looks up, watching the globes getting close and then merging into one with a blinding flash. The light shoots high up and burns so bright, it illuminates the entire valley of Camlann, and Arthur can see what’s hiding among the rocks on those cliffs. The creatures of darkness blink at the light, hiss, and scatter.

Something approaches them at high speed with a high-pitched sound. All Arthur can make out is that they are being attacked by a _screaming cloud_ before he hears Ganeida yelling, “Get down!” and Merlin throws him to the ground and drops on top of him.

“What was that?” Arthur asks, grunting under Merlin’s weight.

Merlin looks up.

“That was the Dorocha," Balinor says grimly.   

“The Dorocha?” Arthur asks, trying to push Merlin off.

“Spirits. Voices of the dead. Can kill you by just a touch,” Merlin explains without moving.

"This means Nimueh teamed up with the Cailleach, the keeper of the Spirit realm," Balinor muses.

"We can't let them out of here."

"And we will not, Merlin."

Another Dorocha zips towards them with a shrill cry, and Merlin sends a thin streak of flame into it, blasting the Dorocha into mist.

“Not too bad,” Arthur murmurs approvingly. “Now please get off me.”

“You must stay close,” Merlin says, pushing himself to his feet and, after checking around, extending his arm to Arthur.

“ _Mer_ lin.” Arthur gets up, ignoring the offered hand. “For fuck’s sake, I’m already here. It’s happening. Could you please stop coddling me?"

Merlin wants to say something but is interrupted by Leon’s, “Guys, watch out!”

In the next moment, he’s attacked by something that looks like an oversized hairless cat with burning red eyes and sharp claws and teeth. Leon swings his arm widely and hits it squarely in the torso, and the creature bounces away with a whine. Three more of those things attack Morgana and Merlin at the same time. They react by throwing their hands, almost in unison, and sending the creatures scattering like pins hit with a skilled bowl. Arthur quickly scans the area and his eye catches some movement on the cliff, and he shudders, realizing that the entire slope is moving, covered with creatures advancing on them. Dorocha zoom past, and Merlin chases them down, firing them into mist. Arthur helps the best he can, alternating between kicking and punching and zapping the creepy bastards with his disabler, but the artifact is good only for twenty charges, and by his rough calculation he’s at fifteen already.

He swears when two sorcerers jump at him out of the shadow of the realm; he has no ability to anticipate them and it frustrates him to no end, but Merlin's already there, eyes blazing and mouth moving in an angry spell. He stops the men in their tracks and sends them flying with a bounce of his hands. They hit the ground in a heap and don’t get up, but three more men step out of the darkness, and Merlin repeats the process of knocking them down, only for several more to take their place. The sorcerers keep coming, with the same blank expression on their faces and the same dumb, stiff determination, as if they’ve been cloned and programmed with one command: attack.

Arthur keeps firing punches and his disabler until it’s completely drained. It clicks dry, once, twice, and he tosses it to the side, but the moment is lost, he’s wide open and the sorcerer doesn’t miss this opportunity to hit him with a spell. Merlin shields Arthur, of course, just in time to save him from being gutted. That was a close one, and Arthur needs a second or two to get over the shock.

“What the hell is all this?” He looks around, catching his breath.

They are surrounded by and fighting off the lowest forms of the magical world. This sort of magic is not hard to deflect, it's just tiring and not productive. They can spend an eternity here dealing with Nimueh’s seemingly endless arsenal of vermin and brainwashed puppets, and while it might not cost her a lot of effort, their power is slowly draining away. That, he realizes, is exactly what Nimueh's trying to achieve.

Arthur taps the pendant on his neck -- his constant companion and his only source of magic left -- and deflects an attack of yet another sorcerer by punching him in the face. The guy flies backwards like a ragged doll, just like Arthur expected. Still, his borrowed magic is not limitless here, there's only this much he can do with his bare hands. He turns to Merlin. 

“I need you to do something for me.”

“What?” Merlin asks distractedly, sending a ball of fire at the screeching four-legged monster that has just appeared in front of him out of nowhere.

"I need a weapon.”

"What?" Merlin asks again, finishing the monster with another blast.

"A weapon. For me to fight with. Can you magic something up?"

“I don’t...” Merlin shakes his head, blasting another creature coming at them. “What kind of weapon?”

“I don’t know,” Arthur says. "Think of something... Suitable for me for this occasion?"

“Suitable for _you_?" Merlin gives him a quick measuring once-over. "A semi-automatic may be suitable for you." He says this with that special gleam in his eye and certain quality to his voice that leaves no doubt in Arthur's mind that he's being pictured in nothing but a semi hanging on his neck right now. Merlin arches his brow, and if he keeps that up, Arthur might get a semi of his own, thanks to his boyfriend's dirty mouth and mind.

“Damnit, Merlin," he mutters and ducks his head, hiding an embarrassed smile.

Merlin flashes him a toothy grin, knowing exactly the effect he has on Arthur, even at the least appropriate moments. "But you know those kind of things won’t work here.”

Arthur clears his throat. "And what _would_ work?"

"Something more primitive, I suppose."

"As long as it’s sharp and heavy." Arthur tries to recall the images from the magic books Gaius was so adamant for Arthur to read all those years ago, but nothing useful comes to mind, except for trivial things, like... "Like a dagger, maybe? Or an axe?”

“An axe?” Merlin pushes him to the side when yet another sorcerer makes an attempt at attacking Arthur and Arthur’s fist somehow misses his skull, probably because the sorcerer has fucking magic, and Arthur doesn't.

Merlin throws the sorcerer to the ground, and when he growls like an animal and tries to get up, a quick spell out of Merlin’s mouth snaps his neck. The sorcerer slacks down, the fire gone from his eyes in an instant. Arthur looks at Merlin, astonished -- at how quickly it was over, how easily, and how little Merlin hesitated.

“Arthur,” Merlin says, a hint of panic in his voice, “I-- You know I had to...”

“I know.” If Arthur wasn’t this useless, Merlin wouldn’t have to feel like everything is always his responsibility and his burden. “ _Mer_ lin," Arthur grits out. "Get me. A _weapon_.”

 Merlin gnaws on his lip. 

Balinor comes closer.

"Not on this level. We need--"  He doesn’t finish, distracted by flipping down two sorcerers at once with such force, they’re practically buried into the ground. His hair is no longer in a ponytail, falling haphazardly on his face, and he’s lost his tie and jacket somewhere. "We go. Now," he says.

Merlin nods and grabs Arthur's shoulder. They all slide into the next level of the realm. It's Balinor who lights up the sky this time -- single-handedly -- revealing no zombies, no fog, and the same moving shadows on the slopes of the cliffs. There's still nowhere to hide. Taking advantage of a quiet moment, Merlin sets to work. He turns to face Arthur and he begins whispering an incantation under his breath, the glow of magic spilling through the slits of his hooded eyes. In a practiced move, he extends his hand in front of himself and says something else, this time in a guttural, raspy voice, the sound coming out of him so unlike him, it sends chills down Arthur’s spine. Merlin growls out the last word, his eyes glowing brighter, and drops his hand.

“It’s done,” he says, his eyes fluttering closed.

“What’s d--” Arthur looks around, and his gaze stops on a large white stone a few feet away. In the stone, erect, tall, and shining, is a sword. Even from where Arthur’s standing, he can see the elaborate work on the gold pommel, crowning the sword, and the knotted golden chains criss-crossed around the black hilt. The wide silver blade is covered with glowing yellow symbols, and Arthur doesn’t need to guess that these are protective runes.

“Oh wow!” Leon exclaims and goes to it.

“No!” Balinor grabs his shoulder. “It’s not yours to take. Merlin.” He settles a heavy gaze on his son. “How did you know about the sword?”

Merlin looks no less surprised than the rest of them. “I didn't. I really just wanted an axe.”

A shadow falls on Balinor’s face. “I see. It’s meant to be, then."

“What’s meant to be?” Merlin asks.

Balinor pushes Leon slightly in the shoulder for him to step away and beckons to Arthur. “Arthur, come, take it. It belongs to you.”

Arthur comes forward, eyeing both the stone and the sword dubiously. “I doubt it’s that easy. It looks kind of stuck. Rather permanently.”

“For anyone else, but not for you,” Balinor says. “Go on. Try.”

Arthur carefully brushes the sword's hilt with his fingers and is forced to close his eyes at the response he gets. Magic responds immediately, almost violent in its eagerness. It rushes through his fingers and up his arm, igniting every nerve and muscle, spreading higher, further and wider, reaching every cell of his being, and it’s brilliant and terrifying at once. It sings in his blood -- of bygone times and great ambitions, of fierce battles and quiet nights by a campfire, of glorious victories and devastating defeats -- the magic flooding him is ancient and powerful. It fuels his body like rapid fire with strength the likes of which he could never dream of, and it feels amazing. This sword, he realizes, is not just a random artifact, slapped together at odd request, but a device of unique nature. It's special, and it's an honor to hold it. He’s been given an _honor_...

Arthur opens his eyes. “Merlin,” he whispers, his voice cracking in veneration.

“I know, Arthur,” Merlin says, smiling. “I know. I just felt it, too.”

" _Merlin_! You _foolish_ boy! What have you done?” Arthur hears that from somewhere behind him and turns to the sound of the voice -- an urgent clicking in his head.

It’s Kilgharrah, and Arthur steps back, his jaw dropping a little as soon as he recognizes him. There was a time when Arthur wondered where Kilgharrah’s moniker was coming from; seeing him the way he is now, he agrees with it completely -- the mystical beast that's addressing Merlin right now truly lives up to its name. The Great Dragon it is, indeed.

Kilgharrah is at least ten feet tall; his body is covered with thick scales, glistening in brilliant brown, red, and gold. His neck curves in a long, graceful line, and if Arthur’s eyes are not deceiving him, the two large leathery things slowly moving behind his back are half-folded wings. Arthur searches for something in this creature’s appearance -- for _anything_ that would have a resemblance of it ever being human, and finds none. He meets Kilgarrah’s yellow eyes for a brief moment, expecting to see there the soul of the man he's gotten to know over the course of the past year, and he’s startled by what he sees instead. There’s still intelligence gleaming in black, elongated pupils -- centuries worth of wisdom -- but what makes it shine through is pure magic. Ethereal, limitless in power, and detached. Arthur can’t explain why, but this is what strikes him the most -- not Kilgharrah’s magnificent, overwhelming appearance as a dragon in its full form, but the loss of vulnerability, _humanity_ , in the magical creature before him. What Arthur’s facing is a four-limbed, fire-spitting monster that just stepped out of the illustration from the _History of Old Magic_.

“What’s this?” the dragon asks, clear in Arthur's head, and even if it’s impossible to read an emotion on the dragon’s face, Arthur knows he’s furious. “That’s... Calesvol? That can’t be!”

“Yet, it is,” Balinor answers calmly. “Excalibur itself. And you know what to do.”

“No.” Kilgharrah steps back; earth trembles under his massive feet. He shakes his large head. “I refuse.”

Balinor straightens into his full height, his brows knitted into a thick, dark line. “You cannot go against my word.”

Kilgharrah bends his long neck almost to the ground. “My lord. Please, think of something else. This is not the way.”

Balinor narrows his eyes, curling and uncurling his fingers at his sides. “Do not patronize me, Great Dragon. This is my choice.”

“No!” Kilgharrah spits fire, hot air fanning across their faces.

“I am your Dragonlord!" Balinor thunders. "I command you!”

Kilgharrah tosses his head back and lets out an angry roar, and everyone around him takes a step back, cringing at the deafening sound. Balinor is the only one who doesn’t waver; with a harsh expression and one shoulder pushed forward, he stands tall, his entire demeanor signaling that he will not back down. His word will be obeyed.  

Kilgharrah shifts from limb to limb, his yellow eyes wide and mad, resembling a spooked, anguished animal. Balinor tuts and, tilting his head, stretches out his hand. The dragon jerks back. Balinor waits, not changing his stance. Kilgharrah heaves and takes a step forward, as if being pulled by the reins and not being able to resist it.

Balinor makes a soft sound in his throat. “Come, please,” he says quietly, tenderly.

And Kilgharrah does. He lowers his neck to level himself with Balinor’s face, and they stare at each other, both still.

“Please,” Kilgharrah finally breathes out, and Arthur’s heart stutters at the desperate, broken sound of it.

Balinor brings his hand up to Kilgharrah’s massive jaw, palming it. “I can't. It must pass. All will be lost if you don’t do what I ask.”

With a long exhale from the abysmal depth of his lungs, Kilgharrah nods, and it’s more like a bow. “I will do as you ask, sire.”

Balinor smiles. “Thank you.” He looks back at Arthur. “We don’t have much time. Arthur, take the sword.”

Merlin leans in to him. “Arthur, come on.”

Morgana smiles encouragingly. Arthur, still unsure, tries, “I’ve never used anything like--” but Merlin’s eyes flash, and he feels the urge in his chest that wasn’t there before -- a strong, almost uncomfortable pull to the sword -- to touch it, to feel the weight and the cold steel of it in his hand.

There’s no point in resisting, so he walks to the stone again and wraps his fingers firmly around the hilt of the sword, and it’s like the thing was carved especially for him -- it fits his palm perfectly, surprisingly warm under his skin as if it never left his hand. It’s only natural for Arthur to shift the sword a little, testing the resistance of the stone, and when he finds none, he simply pulls it out.

With a kind of stunned wonder, he balances it on the palms of his hands and then, setting a tight grip on it, swings it from side to side, hesitantly at first. It’s no effort at all; the blade hums with each cut through the air and it’s such music to his ears, he grins. “This is awesome!”

With ease, he swirls the sword around and makes a series of thrusts, lunging forward and to the side. The sword reacts by leading his moves in just the right way, his legs producing footwork of such an elaborate nature, it feels more like a dance than swordfighting. His body appreciates it: every muscle sings with pleasure, responding to magic. "Emrys, you are a genius!" he breathes, in awe of both the amazing artifact and his no-less-amazing boyfriend. “Let’s go slay them bastards. All of them!”

Merlin smiles.

“Don’t get too cocky, son. Magic will not tolerate disrespect,” Balinor murmurs. "Now, Arthur, this is not all. Your sword is not complete.”

“I’m sorry?” Arthur asks, almost offended for his prized possession.

“Please bring it to Kilgharrah. He must forge it.”

“He what?”

“Only a sword forged in dragon’s breath can fatally wound a High Priestess.”

“You mean Nimueh?” Merlin asks.

“The very one.” Balinor nods. “I’m afraid it may come to that.”

“So, this is how it’s done,” Ganeida wonders. “The dragon’s breath.”

“Remember this, Ganeida,” Balinor says urgently.

Ganeida nods with wide eyes.

“Arthur--” Balinor gestures for him, and Arthur places the sword on the ground in front of the dragon and steps back.

Kilgharrah completes the task with one long fiery breath that seems more like a deep sigh and turns away, ignoring Balinor’s murmured words of thanks.

“Now what?” Arthur asks, picking up the sword. With relief, he finds that it doesn’t look or feel any different.

“Now you face the future,” Balinor says with a smile.

 

 

xxxxx

Their walk across the valley is brisk, steps as careful as they can make them, and not a word exchanged between them. They move, hyper-aware of the dry lumps of dirt crunching under their feet and of their own breathing. The creatures on the slopes of the cliffs jump and scurry from one rock to the next without caring about being spotted; the rustling and hissing noises they make as they follow them make Arthur’s skin crawl in disgust. The light shining from the sky casts an unnaturally blue hue on Arthur's companions' faces, which, along with the molten gold of their eyes, provides a kind of unearthly quality to their appearance, and Arthur has to blink a few times to convince himself that all this is real and not a weird dream.

Arthur briefly considers a possibility of them escaping through the realm all together, and drops the idea immediately. They still haven't gotten Gwaine back, the gnawing worry about him heavy on Arthur's mind, and they are not cowards -- what’s about to happen tonight may be prolonged but cannot be avoided altogether. Facing and dealing with Nimueh is inevitable, and now is as good a time as ever. So Arthur steadies his breathing, concentrating on the reassuring weight of the sword -- _Calesvol_? -- in his fisted hand. Asking where they are going is pointless -- all roads here lead to Nimueh. Sneaky, crafty Nimueh, no doubt plotting something foul. Arthur grips the sword more firmly.

"Merlin, look!" Ganeida pulls Arthur from his thoughts as she stops in her tracks.

They follow Ganeida’s gaze and look up. There’re two figures on the top of the cliff. One, a tall woman in a long flowing dark cape, is unmistakably Nimueh. Arthur strains his vision, trying to figure out who it is next to her.

And then, Merlin gasps. “Gwaine!”

Ganeida snarls, her eyes turning into slits, and Merlin has to grab her hand to stop her from pouncing towards the cliff.

“Ganny, no!” In the next second, Merlin drops her hand with a hiss.

“Did she just _hurt_ you? _Again_?” Arthur asks Merlin.

Merlin ignores Arthur’s question. “Ganeida, think clearly,” he says, reaching out for her again. "Remember what Gaius taught you."

“Ganeida!” Nimueh calls loudly, and everyone, including Arthur, snaps their heads up. “I was hoping I'd see you tonight, sweetheart. Glad you could make it.”

Ganeida doesn’t make a sound.

“Why don't you come up?" Nimueh asks. "Join your boyfriend and me here.”

“Why don’t you come down?” Arthur yells. “And bring him with you.”

Nimueh laughs. “I don’t think so.”

“I’ll come up.”

Kilgharrah takes a step forward, and the ground shakes under his massive feet.

“Ready to join my liege, Kilgharrah?” Nemueh asks. “I'm glad you have come to your senses.”

“You’re surprisingly dim for a High Priestess.” Kilgharrah huffs out a puff of steam. “You are not my kin. I will never answer to you.”

Nimueh laughs. “Look around, dragon, what do you think is going to happen tonight?”

Kilgharrah takes two more steps forward without responding.

“You can insult my wit, but I do know a few things,” Nimueh says, her voice high and jubilant. “And I predict that before this night is over, you'll lose everything dear to you: your master, your precious kin, and your freedom. Because guess what? Once your kin is gone, you’ll be trailing after me like a well-trained pet you are. You’ll have no choice.”

With a thunderous roar, Kilgharrah snaps his wings open and pushes off from the ground, charging into the sky with surprising speed and lightness. Making a low circle over their heads, he flies towards the top of the cliff, and on his way up, he breathes out a stream of fire -- long, thick, and ferocious -- that rapidly takes on the entire slope of the cliff, torching whatever is crawling and cowering behind the rocks there. Arthur cringes at the screeching, anguished sounds coming from the flames. When he looks up again, Nimueh has Gwaine in front of her, turned to face them, her arm wrapped around his shoulders. From that much afar, Arthur can’t see Gwaine’s expression, but he can tell his eyes are closed and his arms hang limply by his sides. It breaks Arthur’s heart to see his best friend like this, listless and with all fight gone out of him. Kilgharrah was absolutely right -- they cannot underestimate Nimueh’s power.

“Try anything else, pet, and this boy goes,” Nimueh snarls. She no longer raises her voice, but her every word rings clear and menacing in its meaning.

“Why would I care about him?” Kilgharrah asks, yet stopping mid-air, his wings easing to a slow flutter.  

“You care about hurting your kin, your sweet, half-wit kin, don’t you?” Nimueh asks.

Kilgharrah puffs out a small flare of fire, threatening enough in its intent, but it doesn’t reach Gwaine and Nimueh.

“You know what I’m thinking?” Nimueh asks, pushing Gwaine ahead a little. He takes a tentative step but doesn’t go too far, as if being held back. “I’m thinking I’ll do it anyway. Nothing drives someone to destruction more than lost true love.”

“That won’t help you to convince the girl to take your side,” Kilgharrah says.

“That won’t keep her where she doesn’t belong -- on theirs.” She points down at Arthur and their group. “And that’s all I need.” She pokes Gwaine to move a little more.

“Gwaine, no,” Ganeida says in a broken whisper. “No!” she says louder. Her hands fly up, and she yells something into the sky.

Nimueh laughs. The wind whips around her, bubbling her cape behind her back like a black sail in declaration of war.

“Try again, sweetheart!” She pushes Gwaine to the edge of the cliff.

Gwaine sways dangerously and teeters on the edge, but when Nimueh reaches out to him once again, he twists around and, giving her a middle-fingered salute, steps back on his own and lets himself drop.

Nimueh curses and vanishes, but no one pays attention -- all eyes are on Gwaine's rapidly descending figure. With a stifled cry, Ganeida presses a fist to her mouth, and Arthur freezes, speechless from shock. Merlin whispers something quick and Arthur swears Gwaine’s fall slows down a little. Kilgharrah heaves a loud sigh and dives down. It's over in the blink of an eye, but to Arthur, this entire scene drags forever as they all watch the dragon chase after dropping Gwaine. When he dives under him, scoops him out of the air onto his back and soars back up, Arthur hears Gwaine laugh.

“Gwaine, you fucking bastard!” Arthur yells, shaking his fist at him. “I’ll fucking strangle you with my own hands when you get down!”

“Love you too, princess!” Gwaine yells back, waving down from behind Kilgharrah’s neck.

They disappear from view, and Arthur spends several long moments searching the horizon.

"Where did they go?" he asks.

"Gwaine teaming up with Kil? I can't possibly imagine where," Ganeida says with a small smile, but still visibly shaken.

Great Dragon chooses that moment to practically fall out of the sky. He approaches them on high speed, wings flapping in wide strokes, and once he reaches them, he doesn't stop, just slows down, hovering close to the ground. Gwaine skates down his leg and jumps off, landing a bit awkwardly. He rolls over and gets to his feet.

“Whooo, Kilgharrah! That was awesome!” He pumps his fists in the air. “We should make it a thing!”

Kilgharrah's already charging up into the skies, and Arthur hears in his head an echo of a hacking laugh and an indignant, " _Fool_." Arthur agrees with that assessment wholeheartedly.

“Are you all right?” he asks when Gwaine walks up, limping a little.

“I’m fine. Perfect, even! It was fun to play a dummy for a bit.”

“Everything is a fucking joke to you,” Arthur grumbles. “Can you believe this guy?” He glances at Merlin.

But Merlin is not available at the moment, busy fighting a new influx of sorcerers upon them.

Arthur flips his sword and thrusts it into one of them who comes too close to Merlin. The blade slices through flesh easily, quick and merciless, and he tries not to focus on the sickening sound of metal crushing bone.

 _It ends here, tonight_ , he swears to himself, seeing how every member of his group fights with a similar intense expression on their faces. It must end tonight, so they'll never have to deal with magic like this again: manipulative, vicious, designed to destroy.

“Balinor!” Arthur calls, glancing at him. "Your _help_? We could use them now."

“Not yet, soon,” Balinor grunts with his back to them, helping Morgana and Leon fend off additional attacks. As Arthur assesses the enemy mob advancing on them, he realizes that Nimueh, that blasted witch, took advantage of them being distracted by the grand entrance of the dragon and sent more of her sorcerers after them, along with the new slew of creatures and monsters.  

“Hell," Arthur growls, readying the sword for a pack of them coming at him and Gwaine. “How many of them are here?”

“Quite a few,” Gwaine huffs, kicking one. "And then some."

“How do you know?”

“We just saw them spill out of the mountain. Neat trick.” Gwaine grins at him. “There’s a big advantage in riding dragons.”

“It’s a _privilege_ ,” Balinor interjects tersely. “Did you use it wisely?”

Gwaine shuts up for long enough to fling two more sorcerers off Arthur’s back. This was getting annoying.

“There are at least three dozen more from the Catha clan, not easy to get rid of,” Gwaine says, straightening up and blowing his hair from his eyes, and Arthur remembers reading about the people of Catha. Priests of Old Magic, fanatics, trained to resist any form of pain -- perfect devices in the time of war.

"Splendid," he mutters.

“The slopes are infested with God knows what, but they’re mostly for show and to distract us, and Kilgharrah seems to have found an effective way to deal with them,” Gwaine continues. He turns to Balinor, smiling.

“What else?” Balinor asks and taps Leon on the shoulder to point to the approaching danger on his left. Leon nods in thanks, getting into action right away.

Gwaine thinks on Balinor’s question for a moment, squinting. “The area is sealed. We’re surrounded three ways by the mountains. No way through, and the only path leading out of this trap is through a passage down the valley.” He points forward.

Balinor nods. “Okay.”

“But,” Gwaine continues with a pensive expression, “there’s rather an impressive number of Nimueh’s gophers blocking it. I can’t say how many -- hundreds... Spread out, starting about four hundred yards from here. There are Sidhe among them, and those bastards are immortal. They are all well-organized -- divided into three large, even flanks -- and from what I could tell, led by one sorcerer.”

So Gwaine hasn’t been wasting any time while being Nimueh’s captive, just like Arthur hoped. The intel he’s gathered is not just important, but might prove to be invaluable for them to defeat Nimueh. Arthur smiles and slaps him on the back in approval.

Gwaine smirks but then turns serious. “There’s more -- the guy is off the charts powerful, but there's something really strange about him.”

"How so?" Arthur asks.

"His energy. It's not flowing. It’s like he’s overstuffed with it and it’s just stuck inside him. Kind of freaky, to be honest."

“Cornelius,” Balinor says with a faraway look on his face. “So, it is true, she did call for him. This makes things a lot more complicated.”

“Nimueh seems to trust him. She’s off her rocker, by the way. I tried to tap into her magic, too, just to, you know--”

“We know,” Arthur says. “You can never resist a taste, can you?”

“You know me so well, princess.” Gwaine grins. “I was careful.”

“You are still alive, so I’ll give you that,” Balinor says.

“She’s borderline cuckoo, though. Unpredictable and therefore--”

“Dangerous,” Balinor finishes for him.

“I wanted to say ‘weak’,” Gwaine argues. “She’s all over the place.”

“This is not good.” Balinor shakes his head.

“Why?” Arthur asks.

“Dealing with a strong Nimueh always meant a well-measured fight. It was never about winning, and I always knew what to expect. We could reason with each other. If Gwaine is right, and I think he is, we are dealing with an unstable opponent who’s employed help I doubt she can control. I’m afraid it’s Cornelius we should watch out for this time. We need to find a way to neutralize him, and it won’t be easy.”

“Don’t count _us_ out yet, Balinor,” Merlin says quietly, and Balinor turns to him.

“I know you’ll make me proud,” he says. “I just wish that you and Ganeida didn’t have to--”

As if on cue, they are attacked from different ends again, and Arthur steps in line with Balinor, vaguely registering a displeased grunt from Merlin and ignoring it. He will not hide behind anyone's back, so he sets his jaw and lets his sword do the talking for awhile.

They fight, they press, gaining more ground, leaving fallen bodies behind as they dominate, until finally, there is no one left to defeat -- or, rather, there is no one coming anymore. This sudden respite gives them an opportunity to take stock and check for wounds. Thankfully, aside from minor cuts and burns, there are no serious injuries -- nothing Leon can't fix with a quick spell.

“Ah, there you are!” They hear Nimueh’s voice before they notice her. And no wonder.

She lingers at the edge of the shadows, from where she's watched no doubt their fight.

Keeping about ten feet away, she calls, "You seem a bit tired to me, Balinor. Getting too old for such vigorous activities before nighttime?"

Balinor doesn't reply.

"How was that little scuffle you just had?” she keeps taunting. “Good preview? What do you think, Arthur? Could you handle more?"

Arthur grits his teeth and switches the sword from one hand to the other. Nimueh's eyes flick to it, and her gloating expression falters a little.

She makes a motion with her hand and a young man appears next to her. Wearing a long dark tunic fastened with a belt, he's tall and rail-thin. His face is pale, with hollow cheeks, dark eyes and a grim mouth, and Arthur can’t put his finger on it, but there’s something off about him. Nimueh gives the man a pleased nod.

“Balinor,” he says in greeting as if no one else matters here. And maybe to him it’s true.

“Cornelius, I take it,” Balinor responds, and the young man spreads his hands and drops his head in a _here-I-am_ nod.

“You didn’t expect this, did you?” Nimueh asks with a smirk.

“To the contrary, priestess, we already knew,” Balinor says simply. “Your moves lack originality. And this sorcerer does not belong to the world of the living. You had no right to call for him.”

“Oh, please,” Nimueh scoffs. “Talking to me about rights. This whole debacle could’ve been avoided if only you had given me what I asked.”

Merlin twitches next to Arthur.

“That was never going to happen,” Balinor says. “And just to refresh your memory, you supported the final decision.”

“I didn’t support it. I was _cornered_ ,” Nimueh hisses. “ And do you see what happens when I’m cornered?”

“I’m not here to oblige your petulance, Nimueh,” Balinor says. “What do you want?”

“Ah.” Nimueh smiles. “Now, that's better. Much better.” She walks up to Balinor and lowers her voice, making it sound more private, almost intimate. "How are you, Balinor? Ready to talk? Should we try to make a deal for old times' sake?”

Balinor tilts his head to the side. “All right,” he says. “A deal. Send Cornelius back, and the Dorocha. Close the Veil to the Spirit realm for good. Then, we’ll talk.”

“You know it doesn’t work like that. The Cailleach won’t seal the Veil back unless a sacrifice is made. And not just any sacrifice -- she'll want a willing party. I don’t see anyone here willing to die tonight, do you?”

Stunned, Arthur looks at everyone. “Hang on just one minute,” he says. “Are you saying this guy here came from the dead?”

Nimueh grins. “Ah, you’re catching on, boy. Yes, he did. I brought his spirit back along with his power, but his current body is temporary; we are going to find a more suitable vessel, and I do have someone in mind already... Oh, by the way, like anything else called from the Spirit realm, he’s impossible to kill. Not by weapons, not by magic.” She turns to Balinor again. “See, I hold all the cards this time. Still not interested in what I have to propose? Think of the Balance, Balinor."

“I _have_ ," he says through his teeth. "What is it that you want?”

“What I always did. I realize I got a bit too greedy for a moment there. My mistake.” She smiles wryly. “But we both know I can be reasonable. So, how about this... Let me have the girl back. In exchange, you can keep Emrys.”

“You can go to hell,” Gwaine spits, jerking forward.

Ganeida makes a distressed sound and he shifts back to her side. Nimueh pays him no mind and arches her brow at Balinor in a wordless question.

"You have your answer, priestess," Balinor says. “It’s a no.”

Nimueh snarls. Her eyes narrow, flashing with magic, and the gush of wind swirls around them. She hisses something, and Cornelius turns to the formation of sorcerers standing obediently behind him and says something in a calm yet commanding tone. Balinor reacts to it immediately by raising his fist and thrusting it forward in an unmistakable “go-ahead” sign, and a tide of sorcerers spills out of the shadows behind them. It takes no more than a blink of an eye for Arthur -- no more than one hitch of breath-- and they are swarmed. If there’s any order to the madness that immediately surrounds him, he doesn’t see it. Capes fly, bodies clash, magic strikes, fierce and ruthless. Everything moving around Arthur turns into a blur; he's stunned by the viciousness and speed with which the adversaries attack each other.

“Arthur!” Merlin yells, and Arthur ducks and swings his arm instinctively, just in time to deflect a blow.

He tries to pay close attention now, does his best to hold his own, but his movements feel clumsy to him, his reactions too slow; even with the sword made of magic and blessed by the Great Dragon, he has a hard time keeping up.

Grunting in frustration, he swings his sword blindly, having no choice but to trust the magic to guide him, and strikes someone down he can't even make out properly, and then, something switches in his head. He blinks, and it’s as if a veil has been lifted off his eyes and his ears popped. His hearing dials up by such a staggering degree, he groans, overwhelmed by the cacophony of sounds assaulting him from all ends -- by the awful, wretched noises of the battle -- the grunting, the cursing, the screeching and the moaning of men and creatures alike, fighting against each other. The sounds of crunching bones, tearing flesh and cries of pain, are loud in Arthur's ears and impossible to escape.

And it’s not just that -- everything slows down a little, no longer just a blur, and the entire world bursts into vivid colors and turns multidimensional; Arthur can see so much more around him. He finds that every person, every magical object, has a special aura about them, a glow tinged with color. Some are brighter and richer than others, but everyone has one.

Morgana's shines proudly, with a touch of golden-green, while Leon's dimmer, shimmering timidly but steadily with a hint of calmer blue. Balinor's gleam is silver, solid and reassuring, and Gwaine's... Gwaine's bright, of course, and not surprisingly, glimmers in such an array of colors, it’s impossible to name a dominant shade. But above them all are Ganeida and Merlin, blazing in molten gold, similar in their brilliant power -- similar, but not the same. Ganeida's incandescent glow is white-hot, all spikes, sharp and uneven, and Merlin’s, though smoldering and intense, is warmer, the edges are smooth -- and to Arthur, it’s the best visual representation of how truly different their magic is, despite them being twins. With a slight flutter in his stomach, Arthur recognizes something else in the projection of Merlin’s magic -- a trace of familiar red, unmistakably _Arthur's_ \-- now twined with Merlin’s forever.

Every one of his friends is putting their magic to work, fighting off attack after attack. Arthur can see the realm around them bending and vacillating under the amount and the force of magic unleashed at once; he can feel it _groaning_ under its pressure. With the mass of bodies surrounding them, it’s impossible to tell how many sorcerers and magical creatures are here in this fight and who’s on whose side, because despite the difference in their magical appearances, they all have something in common: fiery heat in their eyes, clawed fingers spilling the magic, bent necks and scowling faces, strained by effort. They snarl, they hiss, and they spit incantations at each other, and now Arthur is able to note their every move.

"You planned this, didn't you? You and Gwaine,” he grunts while delivering a blow to some overly eager sorcerer getting too close to his face. “It's _your_ doing.”

“What?” Merlin asks, shooting him a confused glance.

“You’re shielding me, and Gwaine's amplifying my senses," Arthur tells frowning Merlin, who’s biting his lip in concentration, his chest heaving. “You’re wasting your strength. Why the fuck would you--."

"Yeah, yeah, princess," Gwaine interjects, panting. "Let us hear you roar."

"Non-negotiable, Arthur," Merlin adds, and Arthur wonders when these two managed to team up and how permanent this alliance might be. Now, after years of wishing they were nicer to each other, he isn't sure he supports the idea any longer. Being coddled by them separately has been irritating enough, and if from now on they decide to combine their efforts... No fucking way.

Gwaine sees Arthur's annoyed expression and laughs. Lucky for him, Arthur's too busy to argue. Besides, he can't deny the brilliance of what Merlin and Gwaine created together for him. Merlin's shield absorbs and _conducts_ Gwaine's magic, stimulating Arthur's sensory system. Even the smells seem more intense: a strong mix of sweat, blood, dirt, and the foul odor from the creatures hits his nose. He sees magic, he breathes magic, he senses when it spikes and oscillates. And with the sword made of ancient, powerful magic, he feels fucking invincible.

The euphoria of doing something out-of-this-world amazing whips Arthur's mind into a frenzy. He wants to do everything and be everywhere at once. It's impossible, of course, but it doesn't mean he won't try. He twists, he lunges, he thrusts. He dodges when necessary, and he delivers incredible blows, chucking the sorcerers off his teammates, saving their backs on more than one or two occasions. He has magic, he’s their _equal_ , he can do good here as much as they can. Later, he'll blame his overconfidence and yes, _magic_ , too, for missing it -- the beginning of the collapse of the very thing he’s been working so hard to protect.

While he knocks out another deranged creature with a hilt of his sword, determined not to spill more blood in this battle than necessary, Morgana jumps before him to shield him from the Dorocha he failed to notice. Merlin blasts it into a mist a second later, but it’s still a second too late. Morgana tumbles to the ground without making a sound, and Leon drops to his knees before her, his hands on her instantly, shaking her shoulders, rubbing her frost-covered face, pushing magic into her chest -- all at once and desperate to bring back, to not let go, to save.

"Morgana, please!" He leans in to her mouth to push air into her lungs and then brings his ear to her chest.

"Is she...?" Arthur asks, his voice betraying his panic.

“No, shut up.” Leon listens to her heart, and relief floods across his face. "No. She's alive."

Only then do they notice Ganeida being mobbed by a swarm of bodies, and together, they present a growling, vicious ball of magic. Through the spaces between chaotically moving limbs, Arthur can see her methodically working the anger of sorcerers to her advantage. Rage doesn’t help their aim, so she deflects the spells and responds to each attack by charging her own and with meticulous accuracy, throwing them off one by one. She's so good, even Gwaine, who's busy fighting his own share of demented creatures, doesn't look too worried for Ganeida. It may also have something to do with her making it crystal-clear what happens if he tries to treat her like a damsel in distress. Yes, apparently, this role is reserved for Arthur.

It's not obvious right away and becomes clear that something is not right only when Ganeida's attackers seem to change their mind on their strategy and instead of keeping going after her, collapse at her feet all at once. With a satisfied smirk, Ganeida glances over the bodies fanned out on the ground, dusts herself off, and starts walking away.

Gwaine knows it first. He doesn't even try to stop her, unlike Arthur, Merlin, and Balinor, who keep calling her name. He just stares at her retreating figure as she slowly moves away across the field, while not a single sorcerer or creature of dark magic tries to challenge her to a fight. Quite the opposite -- as she walks towards the cliffs, every single magical being shirks away and clears the path for her.

The devastated expression on Gwaine's face is painful to watch.

"What's happening?" Arthur asks. "Where is she going? Ganeida!" he yells again.

"She won't answer," Gwaine says, sounding so broken, Arthur doesn't recognize his voice. "It's not her in there anymore."

"What?" Arthur asks. "Then who?"

"Cornelius."

"I don't understand."

Balinor curses. "She’s possessed by his spirit."

"How is it possible?"

"Quite easily actually," Nimueh says, appearing out of nowhere right before them.  "You blink, you lose, you tell the girl bye-bye. For good." Her lips twitch into an ugly, satisfied smirk.

"You lie!" Merlin yells, raising his hand threateningly. "She'd never let you manipulate her again."

"Don't be naive, Emrys. You, with your kindergarten shields and generic spells, you're both still babies. You have no power against Cornelius. His magic is legendary. And now he's back, and _I_ was the one who did it," she says proudly.

"I will destroy him!"

"Oh, save it. It's over. You can all go home and I promise no one will stop you. If you haven't noticed, I cleared the path for you."

It's true. The valley of Camlann is empty and Nimueh's mob of sorcerers, mystical creatures and monsters are gone -- sent to another dimension or maybe scattered across the realm, back to the shadows they were called from.

"It can’t be,” Merlin insists.

Nimueh rolls her eyes.  “Cornelius!” she calls, and Ganeida turns around, smiling, her eyes glowing an eerie bright-blue and then turning dark. She stalks back towards them, her gait unsteady as if she’s got new pair of feet and is testing her every step.

Arthur registers a movement in the corner of his eye. It’s Gwaine, eyes hot, mouth open in fury, flying in Ganeida’s direction. Nimueh sighs.

“Does the boy ever learn?”

“Nimueh, no!”

She doesn’t listen to Balinor’s shout-- she doesn’t do _anything_ \-- still, Gwaine grunts, stopped in his tracks, and falls heavily to his knees and then slowly to his side.

Arthur chokes out a cry, lurching toward him, but Nimueh forces him to stop with, “Stay. Your idiot friend will survive.” And Arthur can’t move his feet, glued to the ground. All he can do is curse her to hell and promise to himself that the witch will pay. She will pay.   

"Nimueh." Balinor's voice cracks. "This is against every rule. You can't do something so atrocious."

"Don't talk to me about rules. I _asked_ you," she hisses. "I played nice. I even indulged that fool Uther Pendragon with the Disir session. I knew you’d try to set me up, yet I agreed. And not only did I let Uther’s pathetic offspring live, I gave up Emrys. That was for _you_ , Balinor. And what did I get in return? Nothing! Well, that's not good enough, so back off and let me take what’s mine."

Balinor stands speechless, shaking.

Arthur feels like his heart's beating out of his chest. Of all outcomes, he never expected this one; he did not think that Balinor would ever betray his kids again. If this is what Balance turns out to be, he wants none of that.

“I don’t think so, Nimueh,” he says, taking a step forward and raising the sword to hold it atilt by his side. “If you try to leave with her, I will hunt you down.”

Nimueh laughs. “And how are you going to do that, Arthur Pendragon? I can end you right here and now. Don’t tempt me.”

“I’d be careful with such declarations.”

The ground shakes beneath Arthur, and he doesn’t need to look back to know it’s Kilgharrah back from wherever he’s just been. He walks to stand between Arthur and Balinor, his massive body looming over them all. She doesn’t look pleased, yet not overly concerned, either.

“Sure,” she sing-songs. “Whatever you say, pet. Now, if you excuse me, I have things to do. It’s been a pleasure.” She hitches her arm over Ganeida’s.

Ganeida resists a little, and Arthur hears Merlin’s breath catch.

“She’s still there,” he whispers, “She’s fighting it.”

Hope rises in Arthur. “Ganeida!” he calls. “I know you can hear me. Gwaine’s hurt. He needs you!”

Nimueh snarls at Arthur, but Merlin steps forward, half-blocking him, and shakes his head. “You can forget it. If you hurt him, I will decimate you. You’ll be as good as dirt.”

Nimueh narrows her eyes. “Balinor,” she says, “I cannot believe your son’s manners. That’s not how you talk to a lady.”

Kilgharrah huffs. “You are a witch. Conniving, treacherous witch. You leech on other sorcerers’ powers because you hardly have any left of your own. Emrys is right, you are as good as dirt. The realm is better off without you.”

“You!” Nimueh’s eyes flash hot white. “You spineless windbag! When was the last time you did anything useful for the realm? You’re so whipped, you can’t make a single decision without consulting your master’s asshole.”

“Yet, Nimueh, it’s you who spent centuries on your knees, begging me to join you,” Kilgharrah says.

“Well, I don’t need to do that anymore. I have your kin. You won't be far behind.”

Nimueh grabs Ganeida’s shoulder, her intention clear, but Merlin cants a quick spell, joined by Balinor. Nimueh trashes around and goes left, then right, dragging a stumbling Ganeida after her.

“Balinor!” she screams. “We’ve agreed!”

“You’re not leaving with my daughter,” Balinor says calmly. “And you are never to insult any member of my family again.”

Ganeida twitches, her eyes losing the blue glow for a short moment, and Merlin murmurs, “Ganeida... God… _Please. Fight_.”

Nimueh yells one incantation, then another, draws some symbols in the air with her free hand -- which fizzle out as soon as she puts them up -- and she screams in frustration.

While she’s distracted, Merlin jerks his head to Arthur. “Come on.”

Arthur gets Merlin’s idea immediately and gestures to Kilgharrah, twirling his pointer finger in the air. Kilgharrah tilts his neck in acknowledgement and, springing on all fours, takes off into the sky. His wings, long and wide, cover half of the horizon and both Merlin and Arthur from Nimueh’s view. And that’s the idea. They sprint forward, as softly as they can, while Kilgharrah hovers over Nimueh’s head, stalking her while she frantically tries to break through the blocking spell and leave the realm with Ganeida attached to her arm. The dragon flaps his wings with a loud _snap-snap-snap_ , and comes so close to her, his claws almost touch the mane of her hair. She ducks and yells an elaborate curse that even Arthur, with his almost non-existent knowledge of Old Magic language, recognizes for something extremely foul. They sprint some more, and judging by the light footsteps behind them, Balinor is not far behind.

They appear before Nimueh, having the exact effect they hoped for. Startled, she shrieks, losing her grip on Ganeida, and that’s all they need. Merlin snatches her out of Nimueh’s hands, and they quickly back away. Before Nimueh can react, Kilgharrah lets out a thick, hot streak of fire, and she shields herself just in time to avoid being torched, sparks showering the dark ground as if a myriad of fireflies have landed around her in a wide flickering circle. She hurls another curse at him as he soars into the sky; his laugh booms, echoing across the valley.

“Go!” Balinor urges, “I’ll deal with her.”

Supporting Ganeida by her arms, Merlin and Arthur make a run towards the spot where Leon tends to both Morgana and Gwaine, but they do not make it too far. Ganeida suddenly digs her heels into the ground, forcing them to stop, and pulls her arms out of their hold.

“Gan--” Merlin starts.

“Not here anymore,” Ganeida says, articulating each word, her voice is unusually low.

“Cornelius,” Arthur says, which sounds more like a question.

Ganeida smiles; her eyes briefly glow blue. “Yes, Arthur Pendragon. Heard much about you.”   

Merlin draws a sharp breath, his hand twitching by his side, and Arthur knows what Merlin’s thinking. Striking Cornelius means hurting Ganeida, and there’s no way, no way he could ever do that. “Let her go!” he demands.

“Why would I do that?” Cornelius asks, raising his brows. “There’s not much fight left in the girl. I’m settling in nicely. Although, I must say, I’m surprised by the strength of her will. Well...” He gives them an indulgent smile. “Mine is stronger. Soon, I’ll harness it to her power, and then, once again, there won’t be magic on this earth to rival mine.”

“I will not let this happen,” Merlin says.

Cornelius tsks, shaking his head. “You had so much promise once, Emrys. But you lost it all, traded your true powers for a chance with a mere mortal. You are no threat to me. But if you join my side, to--” Cornelius’ voice breaks. He clears his throat, tapping himself in the chest. “--together we will build a realm of such strength, there will never be another threat to its existence.”

Ganeida’s eyes flash, her knees buckle, and she drops to her knees and hands. Both Arthur and Merlin rush to her, but Ganeida raises her hand in a warning, growling, “Back off, Emrys.”

“Please, Ganeida, don’t let him destroy who you are. He’s wrong, you are stronger than him,” Merlin pleads.

Ganeida’s face contorts into a grimace, every muscle turning rigid. She brings her hand to her neck, making a strangled sound in her throat. “Merlin,” she chokes out.

The spectrum of emotions playing on Merlin’s face while he’s watching her struggle is indescribable. A brief show of relief turns into worry and then into frustration. Then, there's love, a genuine, unadulterated concern, and at last, anger -- at this thing that forces his sister to drop her head, shudder violently, and look back up with Cornelius’ dark eyes. This thing that curves her mouth into an arrogant smirk that does not belong to her -- Ganeida simply doesn’t have it in her nature to be cruel.

“Fight it, Ganeida,” Merlin begs. “Listen to yourself.”

Cornelius pushes himself up to his feet and smirks. “But she won’t. She _wanted_ me to take control. You know why? She doesn’t want to be remembered forever as the one who ended the realm. Without it there will be no magic. Magic is your life, Emrys, isn’t it? How could she possibly do this to you?” Cornelius whines, imitating Ganeida, then turns serious. “Ask me how I know this.”

Fucking hell, this guy, Arthur thinks. His mind helpfully pictures him as a frog. Too bad, Merlin was only kidding about that spell for Ganeida's protection.

“I could tell you what she thinks right now, Emrys, but she doesn’t want me to. She’s too scared you’d hate her.”

“Shut up, Cornelius,” Merlin spits.

“Oh, I know.” Cornelius raises his hand, yielding. “The only gift that's granted to all of mankind without exception -- privacy of their thoughts. But the rules for ordinary mortals do not apply to me. There are no rules.”  

Merlin’s eyes burn gold when he closes the distance between himself and Ganeida and stares into her face.

Cornelius tries to back away, but Merlin puts his hand on the back of his neck and doesn’t let him move.

He says, “Listen to me, Ganeida. Do you remember what you told me when I asked what you fear the most? Remember what you said?”

Cornelius hisses and blinks a few times.

Merlin smiles. “You remember. You said your worst fear was to lose yourself again. To have your mind possessed. And we promised something to each other, remember?”

Cornelius pulls a sharp breath through his nose, cringing under Merlin’s firm hold.

“That’s right. We promised that we’ll stick together and we'll fight.” Merlin doesn’t relent. “He’s manipulating you. He wants to own you, but I won’t let him. I’m keeping my promise to you, and so must you.”

Ganeida's eyes roll to the back of her head; her whole body trembles, chest heaving.

“Come on, Ganeida,” Arthur whispers.

Merlin grabs her shoulders and shakes her hard. “Fight, Ganeida! Whatever it is he’s telling you there, he’s lying! He is a fucking liar and a thousand-year-old creep who has no business being in your body. It’s your body and it’s your mind. Kick him the hell out!”

Ganeida tosses her head back, the blue light bursts out of her wide open eyes and her mouth falls open. A blue smoke pours out of her in a thick stream and flows towards the sky. Ganeida slumps into Merlin’s arms.

The smoke sways in the air above their heads, keeping somewhat of a distance but not leaving. This is when Arthur realizes that maybe they should’ve planned this a little better, because it doesn’t look like Cornelius’ spirit is going to go anywhere any time soon. And what the hell are they supposed to do with it now?

Merlin helps Ganeida into an upright position and studies her face. “You all right?”

“You yelled at me,” she tells him, blinking.

“You deserved it, and it worked, so...”

“Hey, guys?” Arthur says, keeping his eyes on the smoke drawing slow, unsure circles in the air.

They look at him quizzically, and Arthur points at it. “Do we have a bottle for this genie?”

“Fuck,” Merlin says.

Arthur agrees. They should tell Balinor, but he appears to be busy having an intense staring contest with Nimueh through a wall of fire, obviously put up by Kilgharrah.

“This cannot stay here,” Ganeida says. She seems a little pale and her voice sounds a little drowsy. It doesn’t stop her from pushing the smoke away from them by extending her hand, forcing it to move. It goes, then stops, then moves again, stretches thin, then rolls into a coil, not acting too eager to obey Ganeida's command.

She bites her lip in concentration, giving it another push.

“What are you doing?” Merlin asks.

“Don’t know, can I set it on fire?”

“It came from hell; it’s probably fire-resistant,” Merlin suggests, and Arthur snorts.

“We can’t --”

“-- let it escape,” Merlin finishes Ganeida’s sentence. “Agreed. Are you--”

“Fine.” Ganeida rolls her shoulders, cracks her neck from side to side. “I’m fine. I can do this. Gwaine?”

“Currently out of commission. But it’s--”

“Better this way. Or he’d be more of an obstruction.” Ganeida nods.

“Sorry.”

“Spouses.” She smiles, with a slight air of condescension.

“Partners,” Merlin corrects her, but looking like he agrees.

“Hey!” Arthur objects, raising his hand to display the sword. “We can be useful.”

Merlin and Ganeida look at each other and both shrug. When did they start finishing each other’s sentences and generally reading each other’s thoughts?

“So, what’s the plan?” he asks. Because -- hello! -- ego-maniacal spirits and plain maniacal sorceresses. They’ve still got a job to do.   

Kilgharrah parasails low above their heads and makes a calling sound. Arthur has no idea what he’s just said -- obviously something just for Balinor, who raises his head and nods to him. The dragon circles around them one more time and makes a graceful landing.

One thing Nimueh is right about -- blinking is an incredibly inconvenient habit when it comes to the realm. They must have all done at once, because somehow they miss Nimueh’s next move, and next thing Arthur knows, it's pouring, rain beating the fire down. Laughing at their startled faces, she whirls around, her black cape reeling after her, and she dashes towards the cliffs.

“What the hell?” Arthur asks, scanning the area. Not surprisingly, Cornelius' spirit is nowhere to be found.

“Did he just--?” Merlin asks, echoing Arthur’s suspicions. “Balinor, did you see it?”

Balinor shakes his head. “No, but I think you’re right.”

“Where is she… _they_ headed?” Merlin asks.

“Somewhere to hide?” Ganeida suggest.

“There’s nowhere to hide,” Arthur says. “And why would they do that? Wouldn’t they just attack and get it over with?”

“Because they know their chances,” Ganeida explains grimly. She closes her eyes briefly. Her face turns a little paler.

“God, Ganeida, are you really all right?” Merlin asks. “What can I do?”

“Nothing. I'm fine. Just… Still in shock, I think,” she insists, running her fingers across her forehead. “I still can’t believe he tricked me so easily.”

Balinor murmurs something to Kilgharrah. The dragon makes an unhappy heaving sound, and Balinor smiles at him apologetically and pats his neck.

“Ganeida, sweetheart.” He walks up to her while removing something from his neck -- a chain. “Here.”

“What is it?” she asks.

“Just put it on. You’ll need it.” He steps closer to her and places the chain with a round, coin-sized pendant over her head. “It’s for protection.”

Ganeida lifts the pendant on her palm. “A dragon,” she whispers, darting her eyes to Kilgharrah and then back to Balinor. “Are you sure?”

“I'm sure.”

"But what about you? And Merlin?"

"I am more than safe." Smiling, Balinor points his thumb to the dragon.

"And I got myself a henchman." Merlin points to Arthur.

Arthur snorts.

She smiles and wraps her fingers around the pendant. "Thank you. I’ll give it back." She turns her head to the spot where Leon is hovering over Morgana and Gwaine.

“Go,” Leon says. “We’ll be fine. Go!”

 

 

xxxxx

 


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **This is it. Last one!**

 

xxxxx

Merlin and Ganeida don’t run. They just kind of _glide_ over the ground, movements smooth, but their eyes sharp, scanning the area, which is deserted, even the creatures now are gone. Arthur wonders if the reason it’s so silent and that there isn’t even the smallest breeze in the air is because this level’s been sealed. The only sound disturbing the stillness is the flap of Kilgharrah’s wings, snapping in the air. The dragon's right behind them, with Balinor sitting upright on his back. One hand on his knee, the other palm flat on the dragon's neck, Balinor looks comfortable and where he belongs, and Arthur is a little bit in awe of them -- of their apparent ease and trust in each other, and of the power and confidence they draw from each other and exude together. No matter what Balinor said earlier, the strength of the bond between them is evident; they are a perfect fit.

“There!” Ganeida points and hastens her steps.

“Careful, Ganeida,” Merlin mutters. “Keep it together.”

Ganeida glances at him, her eyes hot with instant fury. “That prick was possessing me, Merlin, remember? He knows my most private thoughts.”

“I know that, but--" Merlin starts.

“He told me, in my head, that I had a nice body and he was going to enjoy offering himself -- _me_ \-- to Nimueh. _Tonight_ ,” she says.

“Oh, did he?” Merlin asks, his nostrils flaring.

Arthur does not envy the witch and the sorcerer after hearing this conversation. Moreover, he has a few ideas of his own on how to make them regret this evening.

"Shhh," Ganeida says, stopping abruptly.

They come to a halt and listen. Light noise comes from the side of the hill -- a small rock slipped from under someone's foot or a hushed curse.

"Nimueh," Ganeida snarls.

The air around them shifts. It vibrates with tension, and the effect is so strong, it pulses in Arthur’s ears. He feels the hairs on his arms standing up, senses the sharp smell of ozone hitting his nose as it does before a thunderstorm.

Merlin must be sensing it too. With a sharp intake of breath, he asks, "What is she doing?"

"Trying to alter this level." Kilgharrah lands a few feet away from them. "That's the only way she can escape."

"Huh?" Arthur does his best to articulate his puzzlement. "Is that possible?"

"With Cornelius’ assistance, yes," Kilgharrah says. "Needless to say, we can’t let him harness Nimueh's power. It would be our doom."

"But what do we do?" Arthur asks. "How do we stop them?"

"Cornelius belongs to the Spirit realm," Balinor says.

"And Nimueh?" Merlin asks.

"I’m afraid this is no longer a question,” Balinor says after a slight hesitation. “The witch must die."

Kilgharrah cranes his neck, twisting it to an unbelievable degree to look at Balinor, and it reminds Arthur of the first time he met the dragon -- their drive to Arthur’s apartment -- and that same twist of the neck and the stare that had Arthur squirming in his seat. And the same ominous air about it.

Balinor isn’t Arthur; he doesn’t squirm. The opposite of that -- he pats the dragon’s expansive scaly back reassuringly, like he would a nervous horse.

Arthur’s given no time to wonder or reminisce further, the pressure in the air intensifying to the point of his ears ringing. Merlin winces, too, and gasps, “Ganeida, look!”

The horizon just above the cliff is cracking open. There’s no other word for it -- it's unzipping wide, and the light bursts out of the chasm, brightening the sky with the intensity of the sun in its zenith. Everyone groans, covering their eyes.

There’s no need to ask what’s just happened; the real question is, what does it mean? How much damage are Cornelius and Nimueh causing to the realm?

Grabbing the ridge of a scale on the dragon’s side, Balinor leans into him and snaps a command, sending Kilgharrah up into the sky. Ganeida takes off in the direction of the cliffs, but Merlin falters, torn between the desire to follow his sister and stay close to Arthur. He looks absolutely miserable. "Arthur…” he pleads, darting his eyes from him to Ganeida's retreating back.

"I’ll be right behind you. Go!" Arthur urges.

“No, wait… Balinor!” Merlin yells. Of course he wouldn't trust Arthur staying unsupervised. “A lift here, please!”

Kilgharrah doesn’t hide his displeasure in being re-routed. Tossing his head from side to side and letting out small puffs of fire, he makes a u-turn, flies back to Arthur and hovers while Balinor pulls him up.

“I’m not a sumpter,” Kilgharrah grumbles.

“Stop whining, Great Dragon,” Arthur says, only half-joking. He tries to find a somewhat comfortable position on the dragon’s less than comfortable back and fits the sword on his lap. “It’s bad for your skin.”

Balinor laughs. Kilgharrah clicks something Arthur decides to ignore; he’s heard enough threats about being fried to a crisp for this lifetime and the next. Instead he chooses to look around.

Maybe it was a bad idea, because they’re high, so high above the ground, Merlin and Ganeida look like two small action figures, zig-zagging their way up the hill. The speed with which the dragon zooms across the sky is exhilarating and dizzying in equal measures, and Arthur lets out a laugh that might sound more like a breathless giggle, but he'd never admit that.

The Camlann valley stretches beneath them, nothing but black soil and grey rocks, lifeless and unwelcoming land.

“They should hurry. The witch is about to escape.” Kilgharrah speeds up.

“Already did.” Balinor curses.

"But--"

Merlin snaps his head up, fixing his gaze on Arthur, and Arthur’s question freezes on his tongue, struck by the severe expression on Merlin's face. Merlin nods, puts his hand on Ganeida’s shoulder, and they vanish out of this level.

“Arthur, hang on!” Balinor shouts, and Arthur wraps his free arm around Balinor’s waist. Right on time, because Kilgharrah gains speed and plunges them right into the cliff.

“Oh, fuuuu--” Arthur chokes on his scream, the rest of the word jammed back into his throat by the vicious wind smashing into their faces.

Did they just...?

Almost collided with the mountain head-on, yes. When he tentatively opens his eyes, the cliff is behind them, it's dark, and the only light in the sky is from the moon, unusually close, plump, and shining upon them.

“Kilgharrah, are you fucking mad?” Arthur yells, which comes out more like a screech, but he doesn’t care how he sounds, considering how his stomach has just threatened to jump out of his throat.  

Damn dragon makes a sharp turn and surges up, and Arthur can’t decide what to do first: clutch at the sword, at Balinor, or start puking.

“Did you just wet your pants, Pendragon?” the dragon has the nerve to mock him once they’re more or less leveled in the air.

“My bladder is the least of my concerns right now, you snake,” Arthur yells and takes a few deep breaths through the nose. “Is he always this insane?” he asks next to Balinor’s ear.

“He isn’t called ‘Great Dragon’ for nothing.” Balinor pats the dragon’s back.

Kilgharrah snorts loudly. His body cuts through the sky with the steady strokes of his wings, and his skin shimmers under the moonlight, every ridge and scale carved out sharply, infused with brilliant colors. Balinor’s hair attracts the light, too, gleaming with silver. There's a lot more silver than black now, or maybe Arthur hasn't noticed it before?

Kilgharrah starts descending sharply and Balinor murmurs, “Easy, Kil.”

Arthur looks down and recognizes the problem right away.

Ganeida and Merlin are facing Nimueh at the bottom of the valley, shielding themselves with raised hands against her magic, and although Arthur can’t see it, he can feel it -- the pressure in the air crackling with power so strong, Ganeida and Merlin are struggling to stand upright against it. With visible effort, Ganeida takes a step forward, incantation snapping out of her mouth, and Nimueh chuckles.

“Children,” she says in a low, rumbling voice belonging to Cornelius. “Let me show you something useful.”

She does something by rubbing her hands together and thrusting them, palms up, in Ganeida’s direction, and Ganeida freezes. Merlin growls a curse, pouncing at Nimueh, but she stops him by a toss of her wrist. He cries out, pressing his hand to his ribs.

“Merlin!” Arthur lurches down, almost losing his balance.

“Quiet! You are distracting him!” Balinor hisses, trapping Arthur’s arm to his side so he doesn’t do something highly predictable and not at all smart. Like jumping off to Merlin's rescue and breaking his legs, for example.

Meanwhile, Nimueh does that stupid trick with her stupid cape and vanishes in the realm again.

Ganeida thrashes around, her screams muffled, and it looks to Arthur like she’s bound and stuck in an invisible box she can’t get out of. Merlin, still hunched over, looks up at them, his face in a grimace of pain.

“Merlin! Merlin!” Arthur yells again. “Bring me down, Kilgharrah! Now!” he demands.

“He can’t worry about you right now,” Balinor objects, more calm than Arthur would expect. “Let him breathe through it.”

Merlin doesn’t. He doesn’t wait at all. Still with his arm pressed to his ribs, he wheezes out a few curses that sound more like guttural moans. Even from that distance, Arthur can see the muscles on his neck bulging from effort. Ganeida drops to her knees, finally released from the spell, and Merlin presses his face into the crown of her bowed head and says something Arthur can’t hear, just for her. Ganeida pushes herself up, yells in protest at whatever he says, but Merlin's already leaving the realm, alone. Arthur screams, calling his name, knowing with all his unwavering faith in this man, that Merlin cannot face Nimueh and Cornelius by himself; he will not survive their magic alone.

Something strange happens, though -- Merlin does step out, but he doesn’t disappear; Arthur can still see his dark figure moving in the shadow.

“What’s happening?” Arthur asks.

“Nimueh’s teaching us all a lesson,” Balinor says. “Or, rather, Cornelius is making clear what they can do together. Merlin’s locked -- _we’re all_ locked here.”

“So, what do we do?”

“We find the way out. And we do it quickly.”

“Balinor, please,” Arthur begs. “Let me down. I need to be there. I have to be with them.” He can’t explain the feeling surging through him. He just knows that it’s time, and it’s what’s right, and if he doesn’t join Merlin and Ganeida, something terrible and permanent is going to happen.

Kilgharrah turns his head, gazing at Balinor from the corner of his bright-yellow eye, and Balinor nods.

“Then you shall,” Kilgharrah clicks.

As soon as they reach the ground, Arthur skates down the dragon’s belly, the sharp edges of the scales catching on his clothes, scratching him across his entire side from leg up to his arm as he goes. Arthur doesn’t care. He switches hands to hold the sword more comfortably and hits the ground running towards Ganeida, while keeping his eyes on the shadow with pacing Merlin inside.

“You need to...” Ganeida growls, her eyes blazing white-hot. “...get out of there.”

Merlin yells a garbled, “I can do it, save your strength!”

“You don’t get it, do you, _Emrys_? Or did you forget?” she says slowly, the chill in her tone sending goosebumps up Arthur’s neck. “I don’t need to save it here.”

Merlin stills for an agonizingly long moment. He darts his eyes from Ganeida to Arthur, who’s already caught up with her. “Emrys?” he asks in a voice too quiet and uncertain to blame the realm for it. “Ganny, why--”

“No,” Ganeida snaps. “You quit with that. We each have a purpose here, and it’s time I fulfill mine.”

Merlin’s mouth hangs open. He nods, but Arthur doubts he fully understands what’s happening. Arthur can’t say he fully understands, either.

“Get out of there now,” Ganeida demands again. “Or I may hurt you. I don’t want to hurt you, Emrys.”

“Merlin.” Arthur makes a fierce face at him behind Ganeida, and Merlin finally listens and practically jumps out of the shadow.

Once out, he hesitates, and Arthur sees that he can’t help himself, his concern for his sister stronger than fear of being hurt as he reaches out to her. Ganeida jerks out of his touch with an angry hiss, the glow of her narrowed eyes burning on him harshly, and it does hurt Merlin, but not in the way one would be physically. It’s acute and palpable -- the pain of the betrayal that contorts Merlin’s face, his eyes and mouth drooping in searing disappointment. And although it may not concern Arthur directly, he’s upset with this new, unexpected side of Ganeida.

She doesn’t pay attention to Merlin’s crumpled expression. Biting her lip, she crouches down on one knee to the ground and buries her fingers into the dirt.

“Oh God,” Merlin whispers before Arthur can feel it himself. "Ganeida, what are you doing?”

“I am doing my job,” Ganeida tells him from somewhere deep in her chest. 

 _The earth is most generous with magic and easiest to draw from_. Arthur remembers the lesson learned from Ganeida herself, except now the magic is not being used to create or heal. Arthur fears they are about to face the opposite, and he’s at a loss what to do. The choice is clear: to interfere with Ganeida’s magic, which would mean letting the psycho priestess and the spirit of a very dead but very powerful sorcerer take over the magic realm, or let her finish and hope it all works out somehow. How, in the name of Old Magic, did they arrive to this point?

The earth shakes under their feet, and it’s not at all like Arthur’s other, similar experiences have been. It trembles and groans in protest, and shudders violently, giving in as Ganeida pushes and twists her hands deeper into the dirt, the cracks forming and running in all directions from under her fingers. Arthur backs away, tiptoeing to avoid the cracks, which is impossible with the web of them spreading wide and fast. Merlin pulls Arthur closer to him and pushes him behind his back. Arthur doesn’t argue, instinctively knowing that it’s better to let Merlin figure out how to handle Ganeida’s volatile magic.

“Ganeida, you have to breathe,” Merlin says calmly, his burning, frantic eyes betraying him. “Get it back under control.”

Ganeida closes her eyes and breathes through her nose. When she opens them, the glow in them is steady and bright white. “No.This is right. It _feels_ right.”

“It can’t be,” Merlin argues. “Stop this before it's too late. We’ll find another way.”

“No!” She stumbles to her feet, dirt spraying from under her flailing hands, and pushes Merlin in the chest. The cracks keep spreading further with her each step as she starts walking away. Merlin goes after her, yelling her name, and she yells back, “Do not try to stop me. It will make things worse!”

“How much worse can it be?” Merlin cries.

Ganeida does something with her hands as if stretching something or breaking it apart, and Arthur’s back to that day nine months ago when she manipulated the subrealm so they could track down Merlin. Arthur trusted her with his biggest secret then, with the most important part of him and Merlin. He trusted her, and now he has to watch her slip away and turn into something foreign and terrifying. The realization that she knows them so well, every single weakness and soft spot of theirs can now be used against them, chills his spine.  

The smell of ozone permeates the air again, followed by a strong gust of wind that ruffles their hair. So, she's really done it -- she’s torn down the barrier between two levels on her own -- and the implications of this fact make Arthur’s heart stutter. If Ganeida gave in to the wild side of her magic, let herself lose control, it’ll be impossible to stop her.

"Oh God, Ganeida..." he whispers.

She turns to face them.

“It could be a lot worse,” she answers Merlin’s question. “But I know now…”

She looks around, searching for something.

“I’m here, sweetheart,” Balinor says, coming from behind Arthur.  

“I know now, Balinor, and I’m sorry,” Ganeida says, her lips trembling. “I’m so sorry I have to do this.”

“It’s all right.” He smiles faintly. “It was a long time coming.” He reaches to touch her face, and she leans into it.

“I will miss you, Daddy,” she whispers, her voice breaking.

“Good. Please do,” he says. “Don’t cry, my beautiful, brave girl. I am proud of you.”

Ganeida falls out of the realm without a warning, and Balinor shouts, “Merlin, it's time! Go after her now! Arthur, you too!”

He was going to, no need to yell, Arthur thinks, and follows Merlin into the abyss of something unknown and extremely terrifying, clutching at his sword.

 

xxxxx

 

It’s dark here. The moon is missing from the sky. Maybe they’ve jumped through time and it’s gone already; maybe they’re too deep in the realm. Who knows. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that there’s a lone bright sphere of light hovering right above Arthur’s head to guide his steps, and it allows him to figure out that they’re still in Camlann -- and, in a way, Arthur’s glad to see the familiar stretch of the flat land and the cliffs surrounding it.

Arthur can’t say for sure if there are any inhabitants on this level to be aware of, but he trusts the skin on the back of his neck, which is decidedly  not crawling with disgust from the sheer sound of creatures lurking and sniffing after him. Just because of that, the place feels a lot less creepy, although magic here… Magic does not feel good here.

For the first time since they entered the realm last night, Arthur finds himself out of breath, and not because he’s been chasing crazy sorcerers or fighting monsters. Magic here is so strong, Arthur chokes on it when he tries to expand his lungs. He grabs the pendant on his neck, praying it has enough power left to tap into once more. It still has quite a bit, Arthur finds with relief, as Balinor’s magic bursts into action, buzzing into his curled fingers and spreading upwards in a warm, pleasant wave. He can breathe fully again.

The scene unraveling before his eyes once he can focus is already familiar and therefore not exciting. Three sorcerers grunting from the pressure of magic clashing between them, while hurling spells and trying to set each other on fire, is hardly a welcome sight. They are moving around, and it doesn’t take a genius to understand what each person is doing. Merlin is here to protect Ganeida while Nimueh fires shot after shot of magic in his direction, making him duck and dodge every so often, and it’s painfully clear what Nimueh’s goal is -- to get close and disable Ganeida so she can snatch her up and hide away in the realm for long enough to convince Cornelius to follow their initial plan. Seeing how often her eyes flash blue as she doubles over with a growl, it’s obvious Cornelius has different plans. He isn't in a hurry to leave and he doesn’t mind staying in Nimueh’s body and harnessing her power, with Ganeida being next on the list. 

“You can forget it,” Merlin grunts, seeing right through it as well. “You will not have her, neither of you.”

“Just watch me, Emrys.” Nimueh knocks him over.

Arthur gasps, takes a quick run to get closer, just in case, the hilt of the sword heavy and slick in his hand reminding him that he’s not entirely helpless here. He’s watching Nimueh like a hawk. To his relief, Merlin rises back to his feet with stubborn determination and shakes off the dust, like a dog an excess of water.

The sound coming out of Nimueh’s mouth is distorted;  it’s like it has its own echo inside her body -- the effect created by both Nimueh and Cornelius laughing at the same time -- and Arthur doesn’t think he’s ever heard anything more disturbing.

They go at it again.

Every time Nimueh’s able to distract Merlin, she reaches for Ganeida with her magic, pulling at her with her hands and canting furiously. And in response to that, Ganeida counteracts with her own magic, and once Arthur realizes what she's doing, it sends him into a stupor.

She doesn’t just keep Nimueh from escaping. No, for every time the priestess tries, Ganeida flips the realm around them to stop her from running off. By God, no, not just flips it, she decimates level after level as soon as Nimueh opens them, erases them one by one from existence, not allowing the priestess the smallest chance to seize an opportunity. With magic blazing hot in her eyes, Ganeida waves her hands like a conductor directing the darkest, most complex symphony ever created, deriving and hushing magic from the elements of the realm of her own accord. And the faster Nimueh is trying to move, the more ground she tries to cover, the faster are Ganeida’s responses to her, the more aggressive her magic gets. Soon, Arthur can’t recognize their faces or one limb from another; their bodies are just a blur in his eyes.

With each crumbled level, the ground jolts and the rocks roll off the cliffs to their feet. The sky lights up with fireworks, produced by vicious clashes of magic, and darkens again; the grass grows tall at Arthur’s feet, only to wilt and dry out into dust once more.

Arthur doesn’t see it, but he feels the moment of a drastic change. He exhales sharply, shaking himself out of a trance, and a cloud of condensation comes out of his mouth in slow motion. It’s freezing. Even for a spring night, it’s way too cold here right now. The sudden change of temperature cannot mean anything good. How many levels of the realm have been lost? How much of them still remain?

He lifts the sword in his hand. Fat lot of good it’s done them so far.

“Behind you!” he hears, and on impulse, jumps to the side, just in time. If he didn’t, he’d be crushed by a rock rolling off the cliff.

Like a rocket, Kilgharrah plunges from the sky towards him, steered by Balinor. By Balinor, who isn't straddling the dragon anymore -- he’s standing up at his full height on Kilgharrah's shoulders. With his mouth snapping orders, eyes burning with magic, and dragon’s wings spread behind him, he looks like an avenging angel coming down to earth -- or a fierce protector of something he’d give his life for.

The dragon surges over to Arthur and swipes him off the ground, saving him from a cascade of rocks that are crushing down and piling up where he just stood. Arthur almost loses his grip on the sword when he dares to look down, because what he sees beneath them is surreal.

Nimueh is in the middle of the field, locked in a fierce assault with Merlin and Ganeida, bolts of energy zapping between them, and with each attack, they are inching closer to each other. Arthur doubts they even notice what’s happening around them, or realize the damage their fight is causing to the realm. The irony of it all is that the area is no longer sealed off, open for escape if only Nimueh could make a run for it now. The tragedy of it is that the landscape of Camlann is irreversibly changed.

The depth of devastation the fight has caused already is hard to reconcile, but the reality is the valley is no longer encased -- a entire set of the rocky mountains is now missing on one side. And what’s more terrifying, the opened space in place of the cliffs is not leading anywhere. There, instead of the cliffs, is now a chasm -- a crater full of debris of the demolished realm and of its inhabitants, of every creature of magic turned back into raw magic -- a cinder full of brilliant spark, churning down the pitch-black funnel.

Arthur wriggles inside Kilgharrah’s claw, hitting him hard, indicating to let him go. Kilgharrah does as soon as he’s close enough to the ground, and Balinor follows him. Balinor yells something into the sky and the dragon nods and shoots up, his wings making powerful strokes, taking him away.

“Where’s he going?” Arthur yells, sticking his sword into the ground and clutching at it.

“He has a job to do,” Balinor answers evasively.

Arthur doesn’t have the time to insist. He has to stop the fight, he has to distract Nimueh and Cornelius and stop Ganeida from destroying whatever little is left of the realm.

“It’s too late,” Balinor says, glancing at Arthur. “The balance is broken. The realm is gone.”

Arthur staggers. “No, it’s not. You can’t know that!”

Balinor sighs. “Arthur, look.” He points at something behind them. There’s Leon, standing by Morgana and Gwaine, who are propped against the pile of rocks. Morgana’s face is pale and her eyes closed, her chest heaving fast in shallow breaths. Gwaine is awake and doesn’t look like he wants to sit still, but Leon’s hand on his shoulder keeps him down. Gwaine doesn’t look pleased.

“Leon, move,” he grunts, pushing Leon’s legs out of the view. His glowing hot eyes are on Nimueh and Arthur knows what he’s doing: with whatever strength he has left in him, he’s messing with Nimueh and Cornelius' magic. Judging by how little Nimueh pays attention, Arthur doubts it has any effect on her.

“How--” he starts.

“The land has been stripped of the realm, Arthur,” Balinor says. “Most levels have been brought down. There’s no way back.”

“But it still works…”

Balinor’s mouth twitches into a forlorn smile. “To fulfill the prophecy, yes.”

Arthur whirls around. Merlin is on his knees buried into the ground, and there’s a large burning hole in his jacket on his chest. It’s wrong, but in a way Arthur wants him to stay there, like this, as long as he’s all right, because then Merlin’s not in danger of being swallowed by the abyss of the primal magic pulling at them, calling for them to join.

Of course Merlin never would. “Goddamn it!” Merlin cries and thrusts his hand in Nimueh’s direction.

Nimueh deflects the blow and laughs; it rumbles, deep and rich in her chest. “I have you, Emrys! How does defeat taste?”

“Of your blood,” Merlin growls, raising to one knee, his eyes glowing with angry determination.

Nimueh tilts her head to the side. With a smile so dark and eerie, Arthur is stricken with dread, she asks, “Or that of your sister?”

Neither Merlin nor Arthur get a chance to respond. Nimueh takes one large step forward, closing the distance between her and Ganeida, her hand with curled fingers reaching out, the magic zapping out of her fingers. But instead of hitting Ganeida it meets Balinor, who’s managed to step in front of his daughter on time to take the blow.

Ganeida’s scream is blood curdling. Balinor falls slowly to his side, and she blasts Nimueh with magic of such power, the ripples of it throw everyone onto the ground. Nimueh’s laugh breaks into a choke and she drops down like a stone. Her mouth opens as she hits the ground, and Arthur can see the blue smoke -- Cornelius’ spirit -- slowly churning but still lingering inside.

Balinor grunts and tries to get up. His hand is on his neck, and Arthur can see something drip through Balinor’s fingers. Like a vine, a thin red line trickles down his wrist, then another and one more. They twine, joining into one steady stream into Balinor’s sleeve, and Arthur gasps. “Oh, God. Is that blood? What kind of magic was that?”

Merlin pulls Balinor to his lap and presses his hand over Balinor’s. “I don’t know.” His eyes glow, and he whispers something again and again. His hand glistens with blood already. “God. It’s not stopping, we have to stop it or he’ll bleed out.”

“Leon!” Arthur calls, hoping Morgana is stable enough for his friend to be in the right state of mind to help them. Leon is their only hope right now.

Leon is at his side right away, calm and measured -- thank fuck someone is. “Here. Let me.” He rips a piece of fabric from the bottom of his shirt. “I need to look at the wound, and it needs to be dressed.”

Balinor whispers something, and Merlin lowers his head closer. “What?”

Balinor tries again. “Kil…” And then louder, eyes wide. “Kilgharrah, please!”

“I’m here.”

Arthur has to scramble to the side to let the dragon walk closer; no one noticed his arrival.

“I did as you wished, master.”

Balinor grimaces. “No, stop it, Kil. Come… Come here.”

Kilgharrah does and lowers his head to Balinor’s face, sniffing him carefully, huffing out a gentle, foggy breath. He clicks something Arthur doesn’t understand.

Balinor begins to answer, but all that comes out is a gurgling sound. A large spot blooms red on the side of the bandage on his neck, and Leon hushes him. “No more talking. Save your strength.” Balinor smiles weakly.

Kilgharrah clicks something else; Balinor closes his eyes, and opens them slowly, and slightly shakes his head in response, and Arthur wonders what is it they are telling each other they don’t want others to know.

“How does it feel, seeing your master giving up?” Nimueh’s voice is unexpected, and so is the sight of her only a few feet away from them. The witch just won’t stay down, will she?

Ganieda and Merlin hiss in warning at her at the same time, but she doesn’t look at them, her eyes on the dragon.

“Do you think he cares about you, pet? Go on, tell him you love him. See if it makes a difference.”

Balinor opens his eyes and shifts, his gaze searching, lips moving again. He outstretches his arm a little, turning it palm up, and Kilgharrah leans in, nuzzling it gently.

“He already knows,” he clicks, looking Balinor in the eyes, his snout almost touching Balinor's face. “And he’s not giving up.”

The look he gives Balinor is the most human expression Arthur can imagine. It's private, just for Balinor, and full of sheer awe and _pride_. A slow smile stretches Balinor’s mouth while he makes the softest sound in his throat, and Arthur could swear he understands it. He _understands_. Not every “I love you” has to be shouted from the top of the mountains. Sometimes, a small hitch of breath is enough.

“God.” Merlin tries to suppress a sob. “Leon, is he comfortable? Please, I don’t want him to be in pain.”

“Doing my best.” Leon nods, biting his lip, and pushes his hair back. Beads of sweat glisten on his forehead and nose.  

“You are going to be all right. You’re indestructible, remember?” Merlin says, gripping Balinor’s shoulder and searching his eyes. “Right? You’ve had worse, right?”

Balinor’s lips curve, and it’s hard to say whether it’s a smile or a grimace of pain.

“Leon?” Merlin asks. “So?”

“I’m working on it. I don’t know what the witch did to him, but I can’t seem to close the wound. Hang on, Balinor.” Leon reaches to place his hand on Balinor’s neck, but Balinor intercepts it and shakes his head slightly. “No, wait,” Leon objects. “I can do it. I still have some power left in me after Morgana.”

Balinor sets his gaze on the dragon, a mixture of sadness and mirth hidden there. He opens his mouth. “Cail--” he whispers, the red spot over the fabric wrapped around his neck grows larger. “Coming...”

“Who?” Arthur asks, looking up at Kilgharrah in sincere hopes it means something positive. Balinor’s essentially immortal, so there’s nothing to worry about. He’ll get better any minute now.

He raises his voice. “Who’s coming?”

“Kilgharrah? What’s happening? Why isn’t he healing?” Merlin breathes, the terror evident on his face and in his voice. “What did she do to him? I’ll make her undo the spell!”  

Balinor’s mouth twitches; he beckons for Merlin to lean closer. Merlin brings his ear to this lips.

Arthur leans closer, too.

“Ca...Cail....” Balinor tries, in barely a whisper. “... leach. Coming…”

“What?” Merlin asks.

“He wants us to wait for the Caileach,” Kilgharrah says. “The gatekeeper of the Spirit realm.”

“The Caileach? Why?” Merlin’s eyes widen. “No.”

Balinor sighs and closes his eyes.

“We don’t need her. Why would we need her?” Merlin insists in a thin, panicked voice. He shakes Balinor’s shoulder. “Father.”

Balinor’s eyes snap open. He tries to say something and chokes on a cough.

“No, please stay still,” Merlin says, not realizing what he’s just called Balinor. “Leon will patch you up and we’ll get you to Gaius. Now. We’ll go now. Everything is going to be fine. Kilgharrah, tell him! He’ll listen to you!” Merlin pleads.

Kilgharrah heaves a breath. “I did. Don’t you think I tried? He planned it. For a while now...”

“He doesn’t want to be healed, Merlin.” Arthur jerks at the shrill sound of Nimueh’s voice; Nimueh takes a few steps toward them and stops abruptly a few feet away when Kilgharrah huffs out a puff of fire in her direction. She drags her dirty fingers over her face and down her neck, living black prints. Her eyes dart from one person to another. Her hair is a mess, burn holes scattered all over her cape, the hem dragging through dirt. She’s shivering and keeps making choking sounds, still fighting Cornelius inside her. “He wants to _sacrifice_ himself. Your father, finally a hero.” She chokes out a giggle.

“Shut up, Nimueh,” Arthur says, picking up his sword and rising to his feet.

“She’ll be here soon,” Kilgharrah says.

Arthur looks at pale Balinor whose burning eyes are on Kilgharrah, and nods.

“No, we are not doing that!” Merlin protests. “We’re taking him to Gaius!”

“ _Merlin_ …” Kilgharrah heaves another sigh. “I cannot disobey my master. Remember that we still have the Spirit world to take care of. It’s still open, and without the realm, with magic barely hanging on in this world, who’s going to keep the Dorocha away, should more of them come?”

“I’ll go!” Merlin says, getting up. He avoids looking at Arthur. “I’ll… Let the Caileach take me.”

“In which universe do you think I’d ever let you do that?” Arthur asks, furious. “Sooner _I’ll_ go. Merlin, please, do you think any of us wants this?”

“This is not happening.” Merlin wraps his hands around his head. “Why is this happening?”

“Because it’s time,” Kilgharrah says. “There's no more realm. And if we don’t seal that,” he points out the open chasm, churning barely fifty feet away, “we’ll be robbed of whatever magic we have left. Forever..."

Merlin shakes his head.

“Merlin.” Kilgharrah’s eyes are sharp with expectation. “It’s up to you and Ganeida now.”

“What should we do?” Merlin asks.

“Seal the fissure, so no sorcerer can steal or borrow any of the untamed power at their own whim. And you start anew.”

“But what happens to all that magic?” Merlin cries. “I can try to--”

“No you can’t. It’s too strong and too much to handle at once, even for you and Ganeida. Even with my help.”

Balinor shifts, pulling Merlin’s arm for him to get up. Merlin’s eyes are wide and hands are frantic, but he tries to be as gentle as he can while hugging Balinor one more time, choking on a sob. Leon pulls him up and takes his place to hold Balinor.

“It’s not fair. It’s not supposed to be like this,” Merlin cries, pressing his hands to his wet face. "Why don't you just let me and Ganeida try some more?"

“Merlin,” Ganeida says, pulling at his hand. “Don’t you get it yet? The prophecy had to come true and I had to make it happen. The realm as we know it, the old magic -- it’s all gone.” She turns to look at Balinor. “Did I do well?”

Balinor slowly closes and opens his eyes in approval, his face peaceful.

“What’s going to happen now?” Arthur asks Kilgharrah. “What’s going to happen to the rest of the magic?”

“We hold onto it. We harvest it. We let it grow into something new,” Kilgharrah answers. He looks at Merlin. “Now, go on. Seal the old magic away. One day, when you need it most, it might become useful again.”

Ganeida tugs Merlin’s hand and he follows her, still with a devastated expression on his face.

“Oh, I don’t think so.” Cornelius voice carries from behind Kilgharrah. “I’ve been waiting for this moment for too long to let you take all this power away from me.”

Ganieda and Merlin stop in their tracks, but Arthur gestures them to go-go-go, and, ducking, makes a quick run behind the dragon.

As he does, Kilgharrah clicks something furious and breathes out a thick streak of fire at Cornelius, but he shields himself while blasting Ganeida and Merlin with magic and sends them stumbling. Arthur understands now what Balinor meant when he said that the magic left around is only to fulfill the prophecy. Cornelius is part of the prophecy, and judging by his tall, regal posture and the steady blue glow of his eyes, he’s already harnessed his power to Nimueh’s, which might be enough for him to try to hurt both Merlin and Ganeida. As if Arthur would let that happen again.

Arthur checks his grip on the sword, letting the weight of it pull at his arm, and feels it practically become the extension of it. Magic or no magic, Arthur is not going to let down the people who mean to him more than life itself. He sprints as quietly as he can towards Cornelius, his sword raised at his side. Cornelius doesn’t wait for Ganeida and Merlin to get up; with a cackle, he raises his hand towards them, but Arthur is already there.  

“Cornelius!” he growls, because he’s better than sticking a sword in someone’s back.

He also isn’t a fool.

Cornelius is still chuckling while he’s turning to Arthur, but then his eyes widen. He makes an attempt to use magic, but it’s too late. It’s too late. Arthur’s sword is quick and acts almost of its own volition as Arthur feels himself thrust his entire body forward and drive the sword in Nimueh’s body almost up to the hilt. Nimueh gasps, grappling at Arthur, mouth gaping helplessly. Her eyes lose the blue glow. They flash gold weakly as Arthur pulls the sword out and lets her body drop. She whispers her last incantation, with no power behind it, and lets out her last breath, her eyes turning glassy. With Cornelius’ spirit harnessed to Nimueh’s body, he’s trapped inside her, and Arthur hopes forever.

“Got what you deserved, you old creep,” he spits out. “Take pride. That's a High Priestess you’re buried in. Isn’t _that_ an honor?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur sees Ganeida and Merlin on their feet and moving.

“You called, Great Dragon.” The voice behind Arthur is cold and one he’s never heard before. “State your request.”

The Caileach.

Arthur hesitates before looking at her. It’s not every day he happens to face a gatekeeper of the realm of the dead. Someday, she will come for him, and it’s inevitable, but not this day; he knows it. With his jaw clenched and his sword gripped in his hand as if it can make any difference in the negotiations with the Caileach, he turns.

A woman in a heavy black cloak hunches over her staff, turned to Kilgharrah; her face is half-hidden in the hood, and he can only see her pointy nose and chin.

“It’s not your time yet,” she says. “I cannot accept your sacrifice.”

Kilgharrah huffs out a breath and clicks bitterly, “Yet, here you are. Ready to take it from me.”

“Then name it.”

The dragon hesitates before clicking slowly, “It's…  It's my master.”

They all look at Balinor, who’s still on Leon’s lap, his face ashen and his lips blue. With his power almost gone, and all the glamour of magic with it, Balinor’s hair is silver-white and so is his beard, the skin around his eyes ridden with wrinkles. This man in front of them is indeed centuries old, his age having finally caught up with his body, and Arthur’s heart clenches at the realization that there’s no fighting it anymore. Nothing any of them can do or say to fix this. This is Balinor’s choice. He’s ready, and they must respect it.

Balinor slowly opens his eyes and tries to focus them on the Caileach.

“Balinor,” she says. “I see you’ve prepared. If so, shall we?”

Balinor burns his gaze into Kilgharrah.

“My master is willing, but he’s asking for something in return,” Kilgharrah says.

“I know what he wants, and I cannot deny it.”

A corner of Balinor’s mouth twitches, and he licks his lips, leaving them wet and stained bright red. He coughs as soon as he tries to say something.

“No need to thank me, Balinor. This is not mercy. This is my job.”

Balinor turns his head and gives one long look at Ganeida and Merlin, who are busy sealing off the verse of old magic. They stand with their hands clasped together, canting, their heads bowed against gusts of wind howling and snapping at them. The chasm is already visibly narrower.

He then turns to Kilgharrah, who lowers his massive jaw next to Balinor’s head. Whatever he breathes into his ear is for Balinor and Balinor alone. The dragonlord reaches his hand to place it on the side of the dragon’s jaw and smiles. The Caileach raises her staff high above her head and brings it down, hitting the ground with a string of a spell coming from under the hood. Balinor arches up and lets go, releasing a long, sound sigh. His hand slides off Kilgharrah’s face and drops to the ground. The dragon raises his head up and lets out a howl laced with so much despair, so much pain, Arthur’s heart feels like it’s bleeding from Kilgharrah’s loss 

 

The dragon pushes himself off the ground and surges into the sky, his grief-stricken cry echoing around the valley.

“My job is done and I’ll keep my promise," Caileach says. "The Veil between your world and the world of the dead will be restored again.”

“Wait!” Arthur cries and walks to Caileach. “Not yet!”

Caileach hisses a warning, and Arthur stops, drops his sword and raises his hands.

“You are not in the position of asking me for more, Arthur Pendragon,” she says.

“No, but isn’t the sacrifice of one of the most powerful warlocks of good magic worth considering what I have to say? Besides, you’ll be gaining something back if you grant my request.”

“Speak.”

“Take Nimueh with you. It’s now Cornelius’s vessel, and I need your promise that neither her nor Cornelius’ spirit will ever be out of your domain again. Let the dead be dead.”

Caileach pauses for a stretch of time that seems to go on forever, and Arthur keeps holding his breath for as long, waiting for her decision.

“I accept your request, Arthur Pendragon,” she finally says. Her eyes briefly glow gold in the dark of the hood covering her face.

“No conditions?” Arthur asks carefully.

“None. You are about to have more than you can chew already.”

Arthur could swear he hears a smile in the Caileach’s voice. “What is that supposed to mean?”

The Caileach doesn’t answer. She raises her staff and brings it down once more; the wind churns at her feet, picking up the dust off the ground. It blows into Arthur’s eyes and has him blinking and turning his head away, and when he’s able to see again, the Caileach is gone. And so is Nimueh’s body.  

Arthur wishes he could feel a sense of a job well done or at least some relief. After all, it’s over. It’s all over. But he doesn’t. There’s a hollowness in his chest that he knows will never be filled again: part of him that will always miss Balinor and the realm -- both as old as the world itself, both the stuff of legends, and both not able to exist without the other. Balinor knew it all along -- with the end of the realm, his reign must come to an end as well, and so must Nimueh's. He knew it, goddamit, and pushed for it every step of the way. This fact makes Balinor’s sacrifice mean so much more. Arthur still has a hard time believing the magic realm is gone. He was a part of it, and for a short while it was a part of him. He can only imagine how much more it’s going to be missed by his friends.

Arthur's eyes find Leon, who's still hunched over Balinor's body. Leon, his gentle, loyal friend. The man who knew how to heal -- and even when he was out of his depth, was still there, still a calming, steady force. Arthur can’t be sure if without the realm, Leon will ever be able to mend people again, but he does know that even then Leon will never stop trying.

Gwaine, whose strength and belief in Arthur has helped him soar at his best times and has carried him over when he almost lost himself. If Gwaine was strong enough to stand against the High Priestess, who is to say he doesn’t have the strength to stand up and be his magical charis self once again?

Morgana, his beautiful, brave cousin, who saved his life here tonight. A dark magic witch, she fought on the side of good today, because, just like Leon promised, she’d sacrifice her own soul to make another happy. Because that’s where true Balance is born. Arthur feels almost overwhelmed with gratitude and worry for her. Will she be all right? Will she hate him for watching the magic realm fall and letting it happen?

Merlin and Ganeida, the yin to each other’s yang. The further proof that magic starts in the hearts, and not at the end of one’s fingertips. And maybe that’s where they have to look for it again, no matter which kind of magic is at the core. It’s because of them Arthur still believes in the good of this world, and that no matter what might be lurking and waiting for them in the dark corners, it will all turn out to be all right at the end.

Arthur raises his head, tracing his eyes after Kilgharrah, who’s circling around the field, not getting too close but not straying too far from them either -- still bound to this place and still a dragon -- the last of the creatures of the old realm still with them. And if that’s not truly magical, Arthur doesn’t know what is. Despite all the prophecies, tragedies, and catastrophic events, not all old magic is gone -- and it shouldn’t be. Not every part of the past must be destroyed for the sake of the future. Brand new doesn’t mean all better. It means hope, it means meeting the unknown with an open mind, and it also means a lot of hard work. The rest is up to them. Right here. Starting today.

It’s that simple.

 

**Epilogue**

 

Uther Pendragon does win another election.

He is named the Head of the Municipalis yet again -- the people have spoken.

But not the magical folks. Without the realm, many of them are lost, and many are asking questions. Starting from, “Do I still need to be registered with the Department?” to “Where do I seek protection for my magic, should I need it?”

With the realm gone, the Department has lost its primary purpose of watching for the criminal activities related to the realm, and with that, Arthur lost his primary responsibility as part of the Department. He still comes to work, he still responds to the calls, helping to deal with illegal supernatural activities based on the interpretations from the old Department’s books, but it doesn’t feel right. He isn’t sure what he’s fighting anymore. There’s no truly black or white, and he’s starting to think there never was.

Merlin and Ganeida refusing to treat their magic as something antagonistic to each other doesn’t help his clarity. Magic is magic, he agrees, but there are still sorcerers of dark magic performing rituals even with the realm gone, and taking advantage of the unsuspecting folks. And there are still sorcerers of good magic offering their healing powers for financial gain and fleeing with full pockets as soon they overstretch their abilities.   

“But that’s the point,” Morgana says hotly, who's back to her healthy, argumentative self. She never passes up the opportunity for a good debate, even though more often than not she’s the one instigating it. “It doesn’t matter which kind of magic it is. The sooner we accept it all and for what it is -- without treating one kind harsher than another -- and the sooner we start easing the non-magic folks into the idea that magic does exist, the sooner we’ll be able to build a new kind of a realm, with no worries about the Balance anymore. It's about justice for all, no matter who you are. This is our chance, Arthur. The time is now.”

“Like Uther would ever let you,” Arthur mutters.

“I’m not going to ask Uther,” Morgana says. "He's not a factor anymore."

“You tell him that and I want to see how that works out for you.” Arthur huffs a laugh.

“I already did.”

Arthur stops laughing. “Did what?”

“The magic community has spoken. Uther is no longer our mediator,” Morgana says.

Arthur twists around to look at Ganeida and Merlin. Merlin drops his gaze down, but Ganeida meets him with clear eyes and a bright smile.

“You knew?” he asks. “Merlin, you knew?”

Merlin shrugs, still avoiding meeting his eyes. “Yeah, kinda. Yeah.”

Arthur throws his hands up. “Great, just great! Am I always the last one to learn of any important news?”

No one answers, because yes, of course it’s true.

“Who’s going to be leading the Department, then?”

“You are,” all three say at once.

“I’m _what_?” Arthur’s voice jumps into a squeak. “Is this a joke?”

“Arthur…” Merlin steps forward. “Listen--”

“No, no.” Arthur gestures him to stop. “I don’t have to listen to this. I am barely able to wrap my head around this whole ‘no realm’ idea. If you don’t want Uther, fine, I get it. Hell, if you don’t want the Department to be in charge of your affairs anymore, that’s fine by me as well; I’ve been considering resigning anyway.”

“But you won’t,” Morgana says, smiling. “For the magic community has already spoken. And they want you.”

“They don’t even know me!”

“Oh, really?” Merlin asks, suddenly bold. “The first non-magic user to visit the realm. The magic user who gave up _all_ his magic, with no hope to ever have it back, to save another magic user.”

“Yeah, but--”

Merlin doesn't listen. “The son of the Head of the Municipalis, who went against his father and called for the _Disir_ to appeal the case, behind which was none other than the High Priestess of the Old Religion.”

“I didn’t know that at the time!” Arthur tries to argue.

Merlin smirks. “The only non-magic user who fought alongside the sorcerers in the realm and brought down the said, _deranged_ High Priestess."

"That wasn't me, that was the sword!" Arthur insists stubbornly.

"...and who negotiated the deal with the Caileach herself to send the spirit of one of the most powerful sorcerers of Old Magic back to the Spirit realm. Also, the sword?” Merlin asks, smiling.

“I--”

“Do you really think the magic community doesn’t know who you are?” Ganeida asks. “You became a legend, Arthur. There are babies being named after you.”

“Pfft-- What? I know nothing about any babies. Merlin--”

Merlin starts laughing. “You are such a clotpole sometimes, Arthur, it’s unbelievable.”

And this is the one time when Arthur’s actually eager to agree. “Exactly! I can’t be the mediator of the entire magic community!”

“You’d rather leave it to someone like your father? Insensitive, cruel...” Merlin says. “Remember Freya? Will told me how they treated her…”

Will. Of course. Arthur narrows his eyes; he hasn’t forgiven the drunk bastard yet, although Merlin already has.

“I remember,” Arthur says through his teeth.

“So here it is, Arthur,” Merlin says. “I was born with magic and it’s not always all that pleasant and fun, but it’s me, it’s who I am, and I try every day to do something with it. You were chosen. By the people of my kind. They’ve chosen you for who you are, nothing less. Because you’re strong, you’re brave, and you _know_ what having magic feels like.”

“It’s--”

“Don’t you dare tell me it’s different. It’s not. There’s no one better than you to represent us.”

“Can I at least think about it?” Arthur’s cornered and he knows it.

“Oh, you sure can.” Merlin smiles. “Take tonight, take a whole night, and I’ll be there to help you to make the decision.” Arthur pretends that his knees do not go at least a little bit wobbly at the dirty-sweet promise in the voice of his tease of a boyfriend.

Ganeida starts making gagging noises.

“Shut up, Ganny,” Merlin says.

Still giggling, Ganeida makes a gesture of zipping her mouth and throwing away a key. Arthur, of course, already knows what his answer is going to be and is looking forward to having Merlin fuck it out of him later tonight in the most innovative ways. Serves him right.

The hardest part will be the conversation with his father, but that’s something he knows he can deal with. What is Uther going to do if he doesn’t like it? Call for the Disir?

 

xxxxx

 

It’s a mid-summer Sunday morning and all three of them are visiting Balinor’s place of rest, picked by Kilgharrah and something that evidently had meaning to them both. To Arthur, it’s just an old tree with a trunk so thick it takes all three of them to hug around (they did try, of course), and it’s in the middle of a large, empty field. Arthur wanders around it for a bit, letting Merlin and Ganeida spend their time with their father in privacy. He never tells them that sometimes he comes here by himself and talks. Being a mediator isn’t easy. Being chosen is not something he ever aspired to, but it all makes sense now -- his place among magic users, his duty to the rest of the people of Camelot. In his heart, he believes that the day when magic will no longer be a secret is very near. It is if he has anything to say about it, and he believes he does.

He wanders back to Ganeida and Merlin, and finds both of them sitting on the ground with their legs crossed wearing identical pensive expressions.

“I just miss him, you know?”

Merlin sighs. “I know.”

“Do you know where he is now?” she asks, and it dawns on Arthur that it’s not Balinor they’re talking about.

Merlin shakes his head. “We should find him.”

“Yeah.” Ganeida sighs.

“You are his kin, you know,” Arthur speaks up.

Ganeida bites her lip.

“Go on,” Merlin says. “Try.”

Ganeida rises to her feet, and Merlin follows her.   

“Kilgharrah,” Ganeida calls, her voice uncertain. All she gets in response is the whisper of the wind playing hide-and-seek in the grass. “Kilgharrah,” Ganeida calls louder.

The sound of snapping wings in the air is what they hear first and then they see a dot that grows bigger on the horizon. Kilgharrah’s approaching them fast; in less than a minute he’s already taking a sharp dive and landing as he always does, quietly and gracefully -- too gracefully for a creature of such massive proportions. It’s truly magical to see.

“What happened to a simple phone call?” he clicks.

Ganeida balks at him.

“What?” he snaps.

“You came.”

“In a broad daylight, mind you. I’m lucky to have gone unnoticed.”

Arthur somehow doubts it. He wouldn’t be surprised if this ends up being mentioned in papers tomorrow and debunked as another silly rumor about the supernatural.

“But you’re still a dragon, how are you--”

“I prefer it that way when my master calls. It could be urgent. Is it urgent?”

Did he just call Ganeida his master? Merlin smiles and looks at Arthur, and Arthur raises his eyebrow. Well, did he?

“I--” Ganeida stammers. “I’m not your master,” she protests weakly, taking a step back. 

“Well, the pendant on your neck and the dragon speak ready on your tongue say otherwise. Or didn't you notice?” Kilgharrah shifts closer. "There's also the small detail of the bond tying me to my kin. How do you think I knew you called? It took you long enough, by the way."

“What?" She curls her fingers around the pendant gifted to her by Balinor. "That was for protection...” She looks completely out of sorts.

“You are my kin and you are the dragonlord,” Kilgharrah confirms with a slight bow.

“But what about Merlin?”

“I will answer his call, but yours will always take priority.”

Merlin leans to his sister and winks. “Ganeida, the next dragonlord. Or should we call you a ‘dragonlordette’?”

Ganieda’s eyes flash in an instant. “Don’t you dare.”

Kilgharrah’s laugh booms across the field. “Ganeida the Dragonlord it is, then.” He winks at Arthur. “You’re catching flies, Arthur Pendragon. That look doesn’t suit you.”

“Oh back off, you leather bag,” Arthur snaps and closes his mouth only then, to spite the know-it-all dragon.

Kilgharrah narrows his eyes at him.

“What?” Arthur says. “Want to fry me to a crisp? Come off it." He waves his hand and leans down to pull a few blades of the grass. He puts one in his mouth. "Speaking of crisps. Tomorrow, our place at seven. Don’t be late.” He talks around the grass as casually as he can and holds his breath.

This would be their first get-together with Balinor gone, and more than anything he wants Kil to be there.

“Who’s cooking?” Kilgharrah asks.

“Potluck,” Arthur answers quickly.

Kilgharrah shifts from one foot to the other and grumbles something.

Ganeida and Merlin chuckle. Arthur has no idea what he just said, and he rolls his eyes. So now these three are going to have this secret language and talk behind his back all the time? Fun.

“What?” he asks.

“I said fine, I’ll bring the dessert." He stretches his wings open again, ready to take a flight. "I'll see you lot tomorrow.”

Ganeida grins and gives Arthur two thumbs up.

 

xxxxx

 

Of course, it’s easier said than done.

Like most things in life, healing takes time, and this is what they all try to do -- they take time to recover and grow into their own skin again and rediscover their powers. It does take time for them to start believing in themselves again, even though they fiercely believe in each other. Arthur is no exception; his own discovery is of a different origin, least tangible and least tried, but no less exciting and scary, just like anything new. He doesn’t want to think of his path as something foretold. For all he knows, his own destiny is what he makes of it, and he sure has plans. It’s the patience and experience he’s often lacking.  

Just like a soul needs a body and a person needs a home, magic longs for residence, and Arthur's heart aches to see his friends and other people with magic confused and lost. He wants to help. Now. But even with magic alive and eager at their fingertips, they’re at loss where to start, how to harness what they still have back to the elements of this world, and how to make magic grow again.

The books of Old Magic are no help. Reaching out to druids and fishing the information from Gaius are like speaking to the dragon. There are riddles, and there are more prophecies, one more vague than the next -- and Arthur is kind of done with that.

Of course, it all comes down to Merlin. To Merlin, who thought of something brilliant long ago, his heart was so full of love and magic, he made the thing out of the impossible. And if he’s done it once, who's to ever tell him he can't make it so again?

That’s how, one bright afternoon, they end up back in the valley of Camlann. Back where it all ended. The land here is still as flat; there's just a lot more of it since it's been opened up, and of course it feels different when it's lit generously by the summer sun. The ominous air is gone; there are no signs of magic, dark, good -- of any kind at all. No signs of either realm hidden in the depth of some other realities. It’s just rocks, dirt, and grass. And Arthur and Merlin in the center.

“Here it is, I found it, Arthur," Merlin whispers and grabs Arthur’s hand, his eyes glowing a warm gold. "Do you feel it?” He makes a pass with his hand, and the gesture is so familiar, it makes Arthur’s heart clench.

“I--” He closes his eyes and tries to reach inside him, like Ganeida taught him. “I don’t know.”

“It’s okay. It’s too fragile, still,” Merlin murmurs and tugs his hand; Arthur opens his eyes again. “But it’s here. It still exists.”

Arthur smiles, so in love with this man, he doesn’t know what to do with this feeling. So he simply stares at his gorgeous, magic boyfriend, who just by some miracle -- or because he’s that clever and not due to some outdated prophecies ruling their lives -- found the way to build the new realm.

“It will be our base, the foundation,” Merlin says. "I'll root it again and I'll help it grow. There will be enough for everyone and it will be brilliant."

Arthur’s breath hitches at the sight of Merlin making another pass of a hand, and Arthur feels it. He _feels_ Merlin’s magic -- not there just on its own, but as a tangible substance. Who would’ve thought that the most delicate, most brittle thing as  _subrealm_ would be the only piece of the magic realm to survive?

“It was cast with love, after all. Yeah?" He turns to Arthur, unbridled happiness shining on his face.

"Getting sappy, Emrys,” Arthur says and clears his throat.

"Oh, you love it." Merlin smiles.

"Eh. It was a gift to me. Are you saying it's no longer mine?" Arthur asks.

“Don’t you worry, Arthur Pendragon. Give me time, and I will build you another one. Bigger and better.”

“So sure of yourself, are you?” Arthur murmurs.

“Very.” Merlin grins. “All I need is time.”

“You’re the one who can stop it.”

“You’re the one I do it for.”

“Do it now,” Arthur demands, wishing to freeze this moment, to imprint it into his mind just like this -- the two of them under the shimmering glamor of spell and on a cusp of something fantastic.

Laughing, Merlin pulls him close and kisses him.

And if time does stop for a moment or two, Arthur ends up failing to notice, too distracted by Merlin's fingers, reverent on his cheek, and the sparks of magic, brilliant behind his closed eyelids.

 

**~THE END~**

 


End file.
